ft 


T   IHI 


IB© 


; 


N    E  W  -  Y  O  R  K 
C,L;o.  I>K,ARBOKN.  r 
1837. 


THE 


NEW-YORK   BOOK 


OF 


POETRY. 


"  Patrice  fumus  igne  alieuo  luculentior." 


NEW-YORK  : 

GEORGE   DEARBORN,   PUBLISHER, 

NO.    38    GOLD    STREET.  * 

1837. 


3^C? 


N  E  w-Yo  R  K  : 

Printed  by  SCATCHKRD  &  ADAMS, 
No.  38  Gold  Street. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


THE  work  here  presented  to  the  Public  is  compiled  from 
the  poetical  writings  of  natives  of  the  State  of  New- York. 
The  chief  object  in  making  the  collection  was  to  give  '  a  local 
habitation  and  a  name'  to  fugitive  pieces,  which,  though  deem 
ed  worthy  of  being  thus  preserved,  have  hitherto  been  circu 
lated  in  the  newspapers  and  periodicals  solely.  It  was  thought 
well,  however,  by  way  of  giving  completeness  to  the  work,  to 
embody  with  the  rest  specimens  of  those  New- York  poets 
whose  writings  have  been  already  collected  in  another  shape. 
The  design  of  executing  such  a  work  only  suggested  itself 
to  the  Publisher  a  fortnight  before  the  last  sheet  was  put  to 
press ;  and  as  he  was  desirous  that  THE  NEW-YORK  BOOK 
should  appear  at  the  season  when  the  annuals  and  other  simi 
lar  publications  are  most  in  request,  those  who  have  aided  him 
in  the  compilation  have  perhaps  vainly  attempted  to  make  up 
in  industry  for  the  want  of  time.  Under  the  most  favourable 
circumstances,  however,  it  would  be  idle  to  attempt  making 
such  a  collection  what  it  ought  to  be  in  a  single  volume.  The 
field  of  our  Anthology  is  wider  than  any  casual  observer  could 
conceive  ;  and  even  in  thus  rapidly  exploring  it,  the  sources 
of  so  many  new  specimens  have  been  indicated  that  it  is 
hoped  the  reception  of  this  volume  will  be  such  as  to  warrant 
the  Publisher  in  soon  following  it  up  by  another  of  the  same 
character. 

38  Gold  Street^  Dec.  24,  1836. 


274541 


LIST  OF  WRITERS. 


Arden  Francis 

Bailey,  J.  I. 
Barker,  Robert 
Bleeckcr,  Mrs.  Ann  E. 
Bleecker,  Anthony 
Blocdgood,  S.  De  Witt 
Bogart,  A.  H. 
Bogart,  David  S. 
Bogart,  W.  H.  L. 
Bogart,  Elizabeth 
Brooks,  J.  G. 
Brooks,  Miss  Mary  E. 
Blauvelt,  A.  L. 

Clark,  Willis  G. 
Clinch,  Elizabeth  C. 
Crosswell,  Rev.  William 
Clason,  Isaac 

Davidson,  Lucretia  M. 
Doane,  Rt.  Rev.  G.  W. 
Drake,  J.  R. 
Duer,  William 

Ellet,  Mrs.  E.  F. 
Embury,  Emma  C. 

Fay,  Theodore  S. 
Faugeres,  Margaretta  V  '. 

Hawes,  W.  P. 
Hoftman,  C.  F. 


Irving,  Washington 
Inman,  John 

Low,  Samuel 
Lawrence,  Jonathan,  Jr. 
Leggett,  William 
Livingston,  William 

Morris,  George  P . 
Morton,  General  Jacob 
Murray,  Lindley 
Mitchell,  Dr.  Samuel  L. 
Moore,  Clement  C. 

Nack,  James 

Park,  Roswell 
Paulding,  J.  K. 

San  ford,  Edward 
Sands,  R.  C. 
Seymour,  D. 
Slidell,  Thomas 
Street,  A.  B. 
Stone,  William  L. 
Strong,  George  D. 
Sutenneister,  J.  R. 

Tucker,  T.  W. 

Vining,  W,  H. 
Van  Schaick,  J.  B. 
Verplanck,  Gillian 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

ANACREONTIC, JQ 

Anacreontic, 17o 

Address  to  Black  Hawk, 

Address  to  a  Musquito, 07 

A  Poet's  Epistle, '.*.'.'  37 

A  Roman  Chariot  Race, '  ^ 

Affection  wins  affection,           .  71 

Ah  No !  Ah  No  !  To  a  favourite  Child,       .  14* 

A  Health,         ....  \£, 

A  Hymn, '    .    '  fg 

A  Song  of  May, Jrg 

A  Visit  from  St.  Nicholas, '  217 

Appeal, '.'.'.'.  229 

Bronx,            ....  199 

Ballad, '.'.'.'.  191 

Chansonette, ^Q 

Canzonet, '  30j 

Crossing  the  Alleghanies, '  204 

Drink  and  away, 107 

Despondency, '  jg^ 

Death  of  the  First-Born, '  238 

Elegiac  Lines, J5j 

Epitaph  upon  a  Dog, 182 

Elegy  on  the  Exile  and  Death  of  Ovid,            .        .        .*.".'.  241 

Fragment,         'V. 2 

Fears  of  Death, 72 

E"g?St' '        •        .'.'.'.'  102 

Faded  Hours, 134 

Forgetfulness,        .         , 192 

From  a  Father  to  his  Children,        .         .         .        .'.'.'  .      215 

From  a  Husband  to  his  Wife,      .        .        .        .        .  221 

Greece— 1832, 55 

g°Pe'        •     , .k    .  .      .  .;  •<*-••    .i  '•  '••'.  .      116 

He  came  too  late,        ^ 179 

B 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 


Inconstancy,     .         .         .        .   :*  .    ' 31 

Indian  Summer, 54 

Impromptu,       ............  58 

Impromptu,            228 

Joy  and  Sorrow, 104 

Joshua  commanding  the  Sun  and  Moon  to  stand  still,           ...  184 

Lines  on  a  Skull  dug  up  by  the  Plough, 15 

Lines  written  on  a  Bank  Note, 42 

Lines  for  Music, 59 

Love  and  Faith,             66 

Lament,            • 70 

Lines,   .        .        .,               .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .,*•>.  77 

Lake  George, '.'.'.  83 

Lines  written  in  an  Album, 85 

Lines  written  on  the  cover  of  a  Prayer  Book, 96 

Look  Aloft, 101 

Lutzow's  Wild  Chase, 130 

Lines, 132 

Lament, 136 

Lines  written  on  a  pane  of  glass  in  the  house  of  a  friend.    ...  138 

Life's  Guiding  Star, .  164 

Lines  for  Music, 183 

Lake  George— 1829, 203 

Lines  suggested  by  the  perusal  of  "  The  Life  of  Chatterton,"      .         .  225 

Lines  to  a  Daughter  of  the  late  Governor  Clinton,          ....  229 

Love's  Remembrancer, 247 

Moonlight  on  the  Hudson,       .                 7 

Morning  Musings  among  the  Hills, 21 

Morning, .82 

Midnight  Thoughts, r  f,  94 

Morning  Hymn, 121 

Moonlight, ...  128 

Melody, 173 

My  Native  Land, •.••  i  174 

Ode  to  Jamestown, 97 

On  reading  Virgil,       •  •       •* 1^5 

On  Ship-board, 195 

On  seeing  a  beautiful  Young  Lady  whose  health  was  impaired  by  the 

fever  and  ague, 219 

Proem  to  Yamoyden, 87 

Prophetic, r.  224 

Portraiture, 231 

Reflections,        .     •  .-,.-      ,•      :.?''•.•      .'      .      ;.        .        .        .         .  75 

Rhyme  and  Reason,      .  •     ..  ' 104 

Reminiscences, 150 

Song,  (I  know  thou  dost  love  me), 17 

Song,  (Nay  think  not  Dear), 23 

Song  of  the  Hermit  Trout,               4G 


CONTENTS.  IX 


Song  of  Spring  Time, 63 

Song,  Rosalie  Clare, 126 

Song, 129 

Song, 171 

Stanzas, 184 

Song, 186 

Spring  is  coming, ^  214 

Sonnet  to  Myra, 236 

Song,  (When  other  friends  are  round  thee), 238 

Thoughts  of  a  Student,             1 

The  Settler, 3 

The  Worst, 6 

The  Minisink, 18 

The  Dead  of  1832, 24 

To  a  Lady,  who  declared  that  the  sun  prevented  her  from  sleeping,     ,  27 

The  Callicoon  in  Autumn,       .        .        .  4-      •  ' 32 

The  Western  Hunter  to  his  Mistress,       '*•  .*       .        .         .    '  j,       ;'.,  36 

The  Delaware  Water  Gap, 43 

To  May, 47 

To  the  Whip-poor-will,            49 

The  Clouds, 50 

The  Isle  of  Rest, 53 

The  Shipwreck  of  Camoens 64 

The  Last  Song, 68 

To  my  Wife,         .        ,        .        .        ..        .        ...        .        .  69 

The  Bride's  Farewell,      .         .        .:       .        ^ 73 

The  Guardian  Angel, 78 

The  Brave, 81 

The  Faded  One,            86 

The  Indian, 91 

To  the  Evening  Star, 104 

The  Falls  of  the  Passaic, 105 

The  Hudson, 108 

Trenton  Falls, 110 

The  Dumb  Minstrel, Ill 

The  Green  Isle  of  Lovers,        .        .        * 113 

That  Silent  Moon, 114 

To  a  Cigar, ' 116 

The  Lake  of  Cayostea, /> .'.    .         .         .  117 

The  American  Flag,        .        ^'V-'  .'    '   ;  •     .      .*£ -        .        .        .        .  118 

The  Storm  King,      V.        .        .     *-.      •;«..'    .""      ....  124 

To  a  Packet  Ship,            127 

The  Wife's  Song, -    ....  135 

The  Sepulchre  of  David,          .        .        . 139 

The  Last  Prayer  of  Mary  dueen  of  Scots,          >.....  156 

The  Recollections  of  the  People, 159 

The  Husband  to  his  Wife,  on  her  birth-day, 162 

To  a  Goldfinch, 166 

The  Midnight  Ball, 167 

The  Deserted  Bride, 168 

Thoughts  at  the  Grave  of  a  departed  Friend,       .        .      --.»        .         .  171 

To  Themira, > ;       ...  196 

Thanksgiving  after  escape  from  Indian  perils, 189 

Thoughts  on  Parting, 199 

The  Falls  of  Niagara .-.      -,.  200 

The  Pennsylvanian  Immigrant,         .        .        .        .      „                 .  -     .  202 


X  CONTENTS. 

FAGS 

The  Clouds,          .        t:&  •{**   '  «•>' ••  ••/*•'  206 

The  Tornado,           .  .      ^,- 208 

To  a  Lady,          ''.,'»•' .211 

The  Mitchella,           .        .        .        .      . .        s?     .'       .        .        .        .  220 

The  Magic  Draught, 226 

The  Son  of  Sorrow,          .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  230 

The  Farewell,        .        .        .,  '    .,.  ....    .        .        .        ...  234 

To  Cordelia,      ....        '„',    -  -;.      .        .        .        .  236 

To  the  Dying  Year, 250 

Weehawken,    .      #.        .        ,  ^   ^     ....",  40 

White  Lake, 61 

What  is  Solitude, .  79 

Woman,       ..........      *. .,.-  w  144 

West  Point, .        .        ....  187 

Verses  to  the  Memory  of  Colonel  Wood,  of  the  United  States'  Army, 

who  fell  at  the  Sortie  of  Erie, 16-3 

Verses  written  in  a  Book  of  Fortunes, ,        .  181 


POEMS. 


THOUGHTS  OF  A  STUDENT. 

BY   JONATHAN   LAWRENCE,   JUN. 

Ob :  1833,  ast.  25. 

MANY  a  sad,  sweet  thought  have  I, 

Many  a  passing,  sunny  gleam, 
Many  a  bright  tear  in  mine  eye, 

Many  a  wild  and  wandering  dream, 
Stolen  from  hours  I  should  have  tied 
To  musty  volumes  by  my  side, 
Given  to  hours  that  sweetly  wooed 
My  heart  from  its  study's  solitude. 

Oft  when  the  south  wind's  dancing  free 

Over  the  earth  and  in  the  sky, 
And  the  flowers  peep  softly  out  to  see 

The  frolic  Spring  as  she  wantons  by, 
When  the  breeze  and  beam  like  thieves  come  in, 
To  steal  me  away,  I  deem  it  sin 
To  slight  their  voice,  and  away  I'm  straying 
Over  the  hills  and  vales  a  Maying. 
1 


THOUGHTS    OF    A    STUDENT. 

Then  can  I  hear  the  earth  rejoice, 
Happier  than  man  may  ever  be, 

Every  fountain  hath  then  a  voice 
That  sings  of  its  glad  festivity ; 

For  it  hath  burst  the  chains,  that  bound 
Its  currents  dead  in  the  frozen  ground, 

And  flashing  away  in  the  sun  has  gone, 

Singing,  and  singing,  and  singing  on. 

Autumn  hath  sunset  hours,  and  then 
Many  a  musing  mood  I  cherish, 

Many  a  hue  of  fancy,  when 

The  hues  of  earth  are  about  to  perish ; 

Clouds  are  there,  and  brighter,  I  ween, 

Hath  real  sunset  never  seen, 

Sad  as  the  faces  of  friends  that  die, 

And  beautiful  as  their  memory. 

Love  hath  its  thoughts,  we  cannot  keep, 

Visions  the  mind  may  not  control, 
Waking  as  fancy  does  in  sleep 

The  secret  transports  of  the  soul, 
Faces  and  forms  are  strangely  mingled, 
Till  one  by  one  they're  slowly  singled, 
To  the  voice  and  lip,  and  eye  of  her 
I  worship  like  an  idolater. 

Many  a  big,  proud  tear  have  I, 

When  from  my  sweet  and  roaming  track, 
From  the  green  earth  and  misty  sky, 

And  spring  and  love  I  hurry  back  ; 
Then  what  a  dismal,  dreary  gloom 
Settles  upon  my  loathed  room, 
Darker  to  every  thought  and  sense 
Than  if  they  had  never  travelled  thence. 


THE    SETTLER. 

Yet,  I  have  other  thoughts  that  cheer 
The  toilsome  day,  and  lonely  night, 
And  many  a  scene  and  hope  appear, 

And  almost  make  me  gay  and  bright. 
Honour  and  fame  that  I  would  win, 
Though  every  toil  that  yet  hath  been 
Were  doubly  borne,  and  not  an  hour 
Were  brightly  hued  by  Fancy's  power. 

And  though  I  may  sometimes  sigh  to  think 
Of  earth  and  heaven,  and  wind  and  sea, 
And  know  that  the  cup  which  others  drink 

Shall  never  be  brimmed  by  me  ; 
That  many  a  joy  must  be  untasted, 
And  many  a  glorious  breeze  be  wasted, 
Yet  would  not,  if  I  dared,  repine, 
That  toil  and  study  and  care  are  mine. 


THE    SETTLER. 


BY   A.   B.   STREET. 


His  echoing  axe  the  settler  swung 

Amid  the  sea-like  solitude, 
And  rushing,  thundering,  down  were  flung 

The  Titans  of  the  wood  ; 
Loud  shriek'd  the  eagle  as  he  dash'd 
From  out  his  mossy  nest,  which  crash'd 

With  its  supporting  bough, 
And  the  first  sunlight,  leaping,  flash'd 

On  the  wolfs  haunt  below. 


THE    SETTLER. 

Rude  was  the  garb,  and  strong  the  frame, 

Of  him  who  plied  his  ceaseless  toil : 
To  form  that  garb,  the  wild- wood  game 

Contributed  their  spoil ; 
The  soul,  that  warm'd  that  frame,  disdain'd 
The  tinsel,  gaud,  and  glare,  that  reign'd 

Where  men  their  crowds  collect ; 
The  simple  fur,  untrimm'd,  unstain'd, 

This  forest  tamer  deck'd. 

The  paths  which  wound  'mid  gorgeous  trees, 

The  stream  whose  bright  lips  kiss'd  their  flowers, 
The  winds  that  swell'd  their  harmonies 

Through  those  sun-hiding  bowers, 
The  temple  vast — the  green  arcade, 
The  nestling  vale — the  grassy  glade, 

Dark  cave  and  swampy  lair  ; 
These  scenes  and  sounds  majestic,  made 

His  world,  his  pleasures,  there. 

His  roof  adorn'd  a  pleasant  spot, 

'Mid  the  black  logs  green  glow'd  the  grain, 
And  herbs  and  plants  the  woods  knew  not, 

Throve  in  the  sun  and  rain. 
The  smoke-wreath  curling  o'er  the  dell, 
The  low — the  bleat — the  tinkling  bell, 

All  made  a  landscape  strange, 
Which  was  the  living  chronicle 

Of  deeds  that  wrought  the  change. 

The  violet  sprung  at  Spring's  first  tinge, 
The  rose  of  Summer  spread  its  glow, 

The  maize  hung  out  its  Autumn  fringe, 
Rude  Winter  brought  his  snow ; 

And  still  the  lone  one  labour'd  there, 


THE    SETTLER. 

His  shout  and  whistle  woke  the  air, 

As  cheerily  he  plied 
His  garden  spade,  or  drove  his  share 

Along  the  hillock's  side. 

He  mark'd  the  fire-storm's  blazing  flood 

Roaring  and  crackling  on  its  path, 
And  scorching  earth,  and  melting  wood, 

Beneath  its  greedy  wrath  ; 
He  mark'd  the  rapid  whirlwind  shoot, 
Trampling  the  pine  tree  with  its  foot, 

And  darkening  thick  the  day 
With  streaming  bough  and  sever'd  root, 

Hurl'd  whizzing  on  its  way. 

His  gaunt  hound  yell'd,  his  rifle  flash'd, 

The  grim  bear  hush'd  his  savage  growl, 
In  blood  and  foam  the  panther  gnash'd 

His  fangs,  with  dying  howl ; 
The  fleet  deer  ceas'd  its  flying  bound, 
Its  snarling  wolf-foe  bit  the  ground, 

And  with  its  moaning  cry, 
The  beaver  sank  beneath  the  wound 

Its  pond-built  Venice  by. 

Humble  the  lot,  yet  his  the  race  ! 

When  Liberty  sent  forth  her  cry, 
Who  throng'd  in  Conflict's  deadliest  place, 

To  fight— to  bleed— to  die. 
Who  cumber'd  Bunker's  height  of  red, 
By  hope,  through  weary  years  were  led, 

And  witness'd  York  Town's  sun 
Blaze  on  a  Nation's  banner  spread, 

A  Nation's  freedom  won. 


THE    WORST. 

BY    W.    H.    VINING. 

Ob:  1822,^.28. 

OH,  I  have  lived  through  keenest  care, 

And  still  may  live  through  more, 
We  know  not  what  the  heart  can  bear, 

Until  the  worst  be  o'er  ; 
The  worst  is  not  when  fears  assail. 

Before  the  shaft  has  sped, 
Nor  when  we  kiss  the  visage,  pale 

And  beautiful,  though  dead. 
Oh,  then  the  heart  is  nerved  to  cope 

With  danger  and  distress, 
The  very  impulse  left  by  hope 

Will  make  despair  seem  less  ; 
Then  all  is  life — acute,  intense, 

The  thoughts  in  tumult  tost, 
So  reels  the  mind  with  wildered  sense, 

It  knows  not  what  is  lost. 
But  when  that  shuddering  scene  is  past, 

When  earth  receives  her  own, 
And,  wrench'd  from  what  it  loved,  at  last 

The  heart  is  left  alone  ; 
When  all  is  gone — our  hopes  and  fears 

All  buried  in  one  tomb, 
And  we  have  dried  the  source  of  tears, 

There  comes  a  settled  gloom. 
Then  comes  the  worst ,  the  undying  thought 

That  broods  within  the  breast, 
Because  its  loveliest  one  is  not,   % 

And  what  are  all  the  rest  ? 


MOONLIGHT   ON   THE   HUDSON. 


BY   C.   F.    HOFFMAN. 


Written  at  West  Point. 


I'M  not  romantic,  but,  upon  my  word, 

There  are  some  moments  when  one  can't  help  feeling 
As  if  his  heart's  chords  were  so  strongly  stirred 

By  things  around  him,  that  'tis  vain  concealing 
A  little  music  in  his  soul  still  lingers 
Whene'er  its  keys  are  touched  by  Nature's  fingers  : 

And  even  here,  upon  this  settee  lying, 

With  many  a  sleepy  traveller  near  me  snoozing, 

Thoughts  warm  and  wild  are  through  my  bosom  flying, 
Like  founts  when  first  into  the  sunshine  oozing : 

For  who  can  look  on  mountain,  sky,  and  river, 

Like  these,  and  then  be  cold  and  calm  as  ever  ? 

Bright  Dian,  who,  Camilla  like,  dost  skim  yon 
Azure  fields — Thou  who,  once  earthward  bending, 

Didst  loose  thy  virgin  zone  to  young  Endymion 
On  dewy  Latmos  to  his  arms  descending — 

Thou  whom  the  world  of  old  on  every  shore, 

Type  of  thy  sex,  Triformis,  did  adore  : 

Tell  me — where'er  thy  silver  barque  be  steering, 

By  bright  Italian  or  soft  Persian  lands, 
Or  o'er  those  island-studded  seas  careering, 

Whose  pearl-charged  waves  dissolve  on  coral  strands — 
Tell  if  thou  visitest,  thou  heavenly  rover, 
A  lovelier  spot  than  this  the  wide  world  over  ? 


MOONLIGHT    ON    THE    HUDSON. 

Doth  Achelous  or  Araxes  flowing 

Twin-born  from  Pindus,  but  ne'er  meeting  brothers- 
Doth  Tagus  o'er  his  golden  pavement  glowing. 

Or  cradle-freighted  Ganges,  the  reproach  of  mothers, 
The  storied  Rhine,  or  far-famed  Guadalquiver, 
Match  they  in  beauty  my  own  glorious  river  ? 

What  though  no  turret  gray  nor  ivied  column 

Along  these  cliffs  their  sombre  ruins  rear  ? 
What  though  no  frowning  tower  nor  temple  solemn 

Of  despots  tell  and  superstition  here — 
What  though  that  mouldering  fort's  fast-crumbling  walls 
Did  ne'er  enclose  a  baron's  bannered  halls- 
Its  sinking  arches  once  gave  back  as  proud 
v   An  echo  to  the  war-blown  clarion's  peal, 
As  gallant  hearts  its  battlements  did  crowd 

As  ever  beat  beneath  a  vest  of  steel, 
When  herald's  trump  on  knighthood's  haughtiest  day 
Called  forth  chivalric  host  to  battle  fray  : 

For  here  amid  these  woods  did  He  keep  court, 
Before  whose  mighty  soul  the  common  crowd 

Of  heroes,  who  alone  for  fame  have  fought, 

Are  like  the  Patriarch's  sheaves  to  Heav'n's  chos'n  bowed— 

HE  who  his  country's  eagle  taught  to  soar, 

And  fired  those  stars  which  shine  o'er  every  shore. 

And  sights  and  sounds  at  which  the  world  have  wondered, 
Within  these  wild  ravines  have  had  their  birth ; 

Young  Freedom's  cannon  from  these  glens  have  thundered, 
And  sent  their  startling  echoes  o'er  the  earth  ; 

And  not  a  verdant  glade  nor  mountain  hoary 

But  treasures  up  within  the  glorious  story. 


MOONLIGHT    ON    THE    HUDSON. 

And  yet  not  rich  in  high-souled  memories  only, 

Is  every  moon-touched  headland  round  me  gleaming, 

Each  cavernous  glen  and  leafy  valley  lonely, 
And  silver  torrent  o'er  the  bald  rock  streaming : 

But  such  soft  fancies  here  may  breathe  around, 

As  make  Vaucluse  and  Clarens  hallow'd  ground. 

Where,  tell  me  where,  pale  watcher  of  the  night — 

Thou  that  to  love  so  oft  hast  lent  its  soul, 
Since  the  lorn  Lesbian  languished  'neath  thy  light, 

Or  fiery  Romeo  to  his  Juliet  stole — 
Where  dost  thou  find  a  fitter  place  on  earth 
To  nurse  young  love  in  hearts  like  theirs  to  birth  ? 

But  now,  bright  Peri  of  the  skies,  descending 
Thy  pearly  car  hangs  o'er  yon  mountain's  crest, 

And  Night,  more  nearly  now  each  step  attending, 
As  if  to  hide  thy  envied  place  of  rest, 

Closes  at  last  thy  very  couch  beside, 

A  matron  curtaining  a  virgin  bride. 

Farewell !     Though  tears  on  every  leaf  are  starting, 
While  through  the  shadowy  boughs  thy  glances  quiver, 

As  of  the  good  when  heavenward  hence  departing, 
Shines  thy  last  smile  upon  the  placid  river. 

go — could  I  fling  o'er  glory's  tide  one  ray — 

Would  I  too  steal  from  this  dark  world  away. 


10 


ANACREONTIC. 

BY    A.    H.    BOGART. 

Ob  :  1826,  at.  22. 

THE  flying  joy  through  life  we  seek 
For  once  is  ours — the  wine  we  sip 
Blushes  like  Beauty's  glowing  cheek, 
To  meet  our  eager  lip. 

Round  with  the  ringing  glass  once  more  ! 
Friends  of  my  youth  and  of  my  heart — 
No  magic  can  this  hour  restore  — 

Then  crown  it  ere  we  part. 

Ye  are  my  friends,  my  chosen  ones  — 
Whose  blood  would  flow  with  fervour  true 
For  me — and  free  as  this  wine  runs 

Would  mine,  by  Heaven  !  for  you. 

Yet,  mark  me  !     When  a  few  short  years 
Have  hurried  on  their  journey  fleet, 
Not  one  that  now  my  accents  hears 

Will  know  me  when  we  meet. 

Though  now,  perhaps,  with  proud  disdain, 
The  startling  thought  ye  scarce  will  brook, 
Yet,  trust  me,  we'll  be  strangers  then 
In  heart  as  well  as  look. 

Fame's  luring  voice,  and  woman's  wile, 
Will  soon  break  youthful  friendship's  chain — 
But  shall  that  cloud  to-night's  bright  smile  ? 
No — pour  the  wine  again  ! 


II 


ADDRESS  TO  BLACK  HAWK. 


BY   EDWARD   3ANFORD. 


THERE'S  beauty  on  thy  brow,  old  chief!  the  high 

And  manly  beauty  of  the  Roman  mould. 
And  the  keen  flashing  of  thy  full  dark  eye 

Speaks  of  a  heart  that  years  have  not  made  cold  ; 
Of  passions  scathed  not  by  the  blight  of  time, 

Ambition,  that  survives  the  battle  route. 
The  man  within  thee  scorns  to  play  the  mime 

To  gaping  crowds  that  compass  thee  about. 
Thou  walkest,  with  thy  warriors  by  thy  side, 
Wrapped  in  fierce  hate,  and  high  unconquered  pride. 

Chief  of  a  hundred  warriors  !  dost  thou  yet — 

Vanquished  and  captive — dost  thou  deem  that  here — 
The  glowing  day  star  of  thy  glory  set — 

Dull  night  has  closed  upon  thy  bright  career  ? 
Old  forest  lion,  caught  and  caged  at  last, 

Dost  pant  to  roam  again  thy  native  wild  ? 
To  gloat  upon  the  life  blood  flowing  fast 

Of  thy  crushed  victims  ;  and  to  slay  the  child, 
To  dabble  in  the  gore  of  wives  and  mothers, 
And  kill,  old  Turk !  thy  harmless  pale-faced  brothers  ? 


12  ADDRESS    TO    BLACK    HAWK. 

For  it  was  cruel,  Black  Hawk,  thus  to  flutter 

The  dove-cotes  of  the  peaceful  pioneers, 
To  let  thy  tribe  commit  such  fierce,  and  utter 

Slaughter  among  the  folks  of  the  frontiers. 
Though  thine  be  old,  hereditary  hate, 

Begot  in  wrongs,  and  nursed  in  blood,  until 
It  had  become  a  madness,  'tis  too  late 

To  crush  the  hordes  who  have  the  power,  and  will, 
To  rob  thee  of  thy  hunting  grounds,  and  fountains, 
And  drive  thee  backward  to  the  Rocky  Mountains. 


Spite  of  thy  looks  of  cold  indifference, 

There's  much  thou'st  seen  that  must  excite  thy  wonder, 
Wakes  not  upon  thy  quick  and  startled  sense 

The  cannon's  harsh  and  pealing  voice  of  thunder  ? 
Our  big  canoes,  with  white  and  wide-spread  wings, 

That  sweep  the  waters,  as  birds  sweep  the  sky ; — 
Our  steamboats,  with  their  iron  lungs,  like  things 

Of  breathing  life,  that  dash  and  hurry  by  ? 
Or  if  thou  scorn'st  the  wonders  of  the  ocean, 
What  think'st  thou  of  our  railroad  locomotion  ? 


Thou'st  seen  our  Museums,  beheld  the  dummies 

That  grin  in  darkness  in  their  coffin  cases ; 
What  think'st  thou  of  the  art  of  making  mummies, 

So  that  the  worms  shrink  from  their  dry  embraces  ? 
Thou'st  seen  the  mimic  tyrants  of  the  stage 

Strutting,  in  paint  and  feathers,  for  an  hour  ; 
Thou'st  heard  the  bellowing  of  their  tragic  rage, 

Seen  their  eyes  glisten,  and  their  dark  brows  lower. 
Anon,  thou'st  seen  them,  when  their  wrath  cool'd  down, 
Pass  in  a  moment  from  a  king — to  clown. 


ADDRESS   TO   BLACK   HAWK.  13 

Thou  see'st  these  things  unmoved,  say'st  so,  old  fellow  ? 

Then  tell  us,  have  the  white  man's  glowing  daughters 
Set  thy  cold  blood  in  motion  ?     Has't  been  mellow 

By  a  sly  cup  or  so  of  our  fire  waters  ? 
They  are  thy  people's  deadliest  poison.     They 

First  make  them  cowards,  and  then,  white  men's  slaves, 
And  sloth,  and  penury,  and  passion's  prey, 

And  lives  of  misery,  and  early  graves. 
For  by  their  power,  believe  me,  not  a  day  goes, 
But  kills  some  Foxes,  Sacs,  and  Winnebagoes. 


Say,  does  thy  wandering  heart  stray  far  away  ? 

To  the  deep  bosom  of  thy  forest  home, 
The  hill  side,  where  thy  young  pappooses  play, 

And  ask,  amid  their  sports,  when  thou  wilt  come  ? 
Come  not  the  wailings  of  thy  gentle  squaws, 

For  their  lost  warrior,  loud  upon  thine  ear, 
Piercing  athwart  the  thunder  of  huzzas, 

That,  yelled  at  every  corner,  meet  thee  here  ? 
The  wife  who  made  that  shell-decked  wampum  belt, 
Thy  rugged  heart  must  think  of  her,  and  melt. 


Chafes  not  thy  heart,  as  chafes  the  panting  breast 

Of  the  caged  bird  against  his  prison  bars, 
That  thou,  the  crowned  warrior  of  the  west, 

The  victor  of  a  hundred  forest  wars, 
Should'st  in  thy  age,  become  a  raree  show 

Led,  like  a  walking  bear,  about  the  town, 
A  new  caught  monster,  who  is  all  the  go, 

And  stared  at  gratis,  by  the  gaping  clown  ? 
Boils  not  thy  blood,  while  thus  thou'rt  led  about, 
The  sport  and  mockery  of  the  rabble  rout  ? 


14  ADDRESS    TO   BLACK    HAWK. 

Whence  came  thy  cold  philosophy  ?  whence  came, 

Thou  tearless,  stern,  and  uncomplaining  one, 
The  power  that  taught  thee  thus  to  veil  the  flame 

Of  thy  fierce  passions  ?     Thou  despisest  fun, 
And  thy  proud  spirit  scorns  the  white  men's  glee, 

Save  thy  fierce  sport,  when  at  the  funeral  pile, 
Of  a  bound  warrior  in  his  agony, 

Who  meets  thy  horrid  laugh  with  dying  smile. 
Thy  face,  in  length,  reminds  one  of  a  Quaker's, 
Thy  dances,  too,  are  solemn  as  a  Shaker's. 

Proud  scion  of  a  noble  stem !  thy  tree 

Is  blanched,  and  bare,  and  seared,  and  leafless  now. 
I  '11  not  insult  its  fallen  majesty, 

Nor  drive  with  careless  hand,  the  ruthless  plough 
Over  its  roots.     Torn  from  its  parent  mould, 

Rich,  warm  and  deep,  its  fresh,  free,  balmy  air, 
No  second  verdure  quickens  in  our  cold 

New,  barren  earth  ;  no  life  sustains  it  there. 
But  even  though  prostrate,  'tis  a  noble  thing, 
Though  crownless,  powerless,  "  every  inch  a  king." 

Give  us  thy  hand,  old  nobleman  of  nature, 

Proud  ruler  of  the  forest  aristocracy ; 
The  best  of  blood  glows  in  thy  every  feature, 

And  thy  curled  lip  speaks  scorn  for  our  democracy, 
Thou  wear'st  thy  titles  on  that  godlike  brow  ; 

Let  him  who  doubts  them,  meet  thine  eagle  eye, 
He'll  quail  beneath  its  glance,  and  disavow 

All  question  of  thy  noble  family ; 
For  thou  may'st  here  become,  with  strict  propriety, 
A  leader  in  our  city  good  society. 


LINES  ON  A  SKULL  DUG  UP  BY  THE  PLOUGH. 

[From  the  German  of  Friedrich  Kind.} 

BY   D.   SEYMOUR. 

COULDST  thou  not  sleep  upon  thy  mother's  breast  ? 

Was't  thou,  ere  day  dawned,  wakened  from  thy  slumbers? 
Did  earth  deny  to  thee  the  quiet  rest 

She  grants  to  all  her  children's  countless  numbers  ? 
In  narrow  bed  they  sleep  away  the  hours 
Beneath  the  winter's  frost,  the  summer's  flowers ; 
No  shade  protects  thee  from  the  sun's  fierce  glow, 
Thy  only  winding-sheet  the  pitying  snow. 

How  naked  art  thou  !     Pale  is  now  that  face 

Which  once,  no  doubt,  was  blooming — deeply  dinted, 

A  gaping  wound  doth  thy  broad  brow  deface  ; 
Was't  by  the  sword  or  careless  plough  imprinted  ? 

Where  are  the  eyes  whose  glances  once  were  lightning  ! 

No  soul  is  in  their  hollow  sockets  brightening  ; 

Yet  do  they  gaze  on  me,  now  fierce,  now  sad, 

As  though  I  power  o'er  thy  destiny  had. 

I  did  not  from  thy  gloomy  mansion  spurn  thee 
To  gaze  upon  the  sun  that  gilds  these  fields  ; 

But  on  my  pilgrim  staff  I  lift  and  turn  thee, 
And  try  if  to  my  spells  thy  silence  yields ; 

Wert  thou  my  brother  once — and  did  those  glances 

Respond  to  love's  and  friendship's  soft  advances  ? 

Has  then  a  spirit  in  this  frame- work  slept  ? 

Say,  hast  thou  loved  and  hated,  smiled  and  wept  1 


16  LINES  ON  A  SKULL  DUG  UP  BY  THE  PLOUGH. 

What,  silent  still ! — wilt  thou  make  no  disclosure  ? 

Is  the  grave's  sleep  indeed  so  cool  and  still  ? 
Say,  dost  thou  suffer  from  this  rude  exposure  ? 

Hast  thou  then  lost  all  thought,  emotion,  will  ? 
Or  has  thy  soul,  that  once  within  thee  centered, 
On  a  new  field  of  life  and  duty  entered  ? 
Do  flesh  and  spirit  still  in  thee  entwine, 
Dost  thou  still  call  this  mouldering  skull-bone  thine  ? 

Who  wert  thou  once  ?  what  brought  thee  to  these  regions, 

The  murderer  or  the  murdered  to  be  ? 
Wert  thou  enrolled  in  mercenary  legions, 

Or  didst  thou  Honour's  banner  follow  free  ? 
Didst  thou  desire  to  be  enrolled  in  story, 
Didst  fight  for  freedom,  peace,  truth,  gold,  or  glory  1 
The  sword  which  here  dropped  from  thy  helpless  hand, 
Was  it  the  scourge  or  guardian  of  the  land  ? 

Even  yet,  for  thee,  beyond  yon  dim  blue  mountains, 

The  tear  may  tremble  in  a  mother's  eye, 
And  as  approaching  death  dries  up  life's  fountains, 

Thou  to  her  thoughts  and  prayers  may'st  still  be  nigh  ; 
Perhaps  thy  orphans  still  for  thee  are  crying, 
Perhaps  thy  friends  for  thy  return  are  sighing, 
And  dream  not  that  upon  this  little  hill 
The  dews  of  night  upon  thy  skull  distil. 

Or  wert  thou  one  of  the  accursed  banditti 

Who  wrought  such  outrage  on  fair  Germany  ? 
Who  made  the  field  a  desert,  fired  the  city, 

Defiled  the  pure,  and  captive  led  the  free  ? 
Didst  thou,  in  disposition  fierce  and  hellish, 
Thy  span  of  life  with  deeds  like  these  embellish  ? 
Then — God  of  righteousness  !  to  thee  belongs, 
Not  unto  us,  to  judge  and  right  our  wrongs. 


SONG.  17 

The  sun  already  toward  the  west  is  tending, 

His  rays  upon  thy  hollow  temples  strike  ; 
Thou  heed'st  them  not ;  heed'st  not  the  rains,  descending 

On  good  and  bad,  just  and  unjust  alike. 
The  mild,  cool  breeze  of  even  is  round  me  playing, 
Sweet  perfume  from  the  woods  and  fields  are  straying  ; 
Rich  grain  now  waves  where  lances  bristled  then  ; 
Thus  do  all  things  proclaim  God's  love  to  men. 

Whoe'er  thou  wert,  who  by  a  fellow-mortal 
Were  hurried  out  of  life  ;  we  are  at  peace  ; 

Thus  I  return  thee  to  the  grave's  dark  portal, 
Revenge  and  hatred  on  this  spot  should  cease. 

Rest  where  thy  mouldering  skeleton  reposes, 

And  may  the  perfume  of  the  forest  roses 

Waft  thoughts  of  peace  to  every  wanderer's  breast ! 

Thou  restless  one  !  return  thee  to  thy  rest. 


SONG. 

BY    C.    F.    HOFFMAN. 

I  KNOW  thou  dost  love  me — ay  !  frown  as  thou  wilt? 

And  curl  that  beautiful  lip 
Which  I  never  can  gaze  on  without  the  guilt 

Of  burning  its  dew  to  sip. 
I  know  that  my  heart  is  reflected  in  thine, 
And,  like  flowers  that  over  a  brook  incline, 

They  toward  each  other  dip. 
3 


18  THE    MINISINK. 

Though  thou  lookest  so  cold  in  these  halls  of  light, 

'Mid  the  careless,  proud,  and  gay, 
I  will  steal  like  a  thief  in  thy  heart  at  night, 

And  pilfer  its  thoughts  away. 
I  will  come  in  thy  dreams  at  the  midnight  hour, 
And  thy  soul  in  secret  shall  own  the  power 

It  dares  to  mock  by  day. 


THE    MINISINK. 

BY   A.   B.    STREET. 

ENCIRCLED  by  the  screening  shade, 

With  scatter'd  bush,  and  bough, 
And  grassy  slopes,  a  pleasant  glade 

Is  spread  before  me  now ; 
The  wind  that  shows  its  forest  search 
By  the  sweet  fragrance  of  the  birch 

Is  whispering  on  my  brow, 
And  the  mild  sunshine  flickers  through 
The  soft  white  cloud  and  summer  blue. 

Far  to  the  North,  the  Delaware 
Flows  mountain-curv'd  along, 
By  forest  bank,  by  summit  bare, 

It  bends  in  rippling  song ; 
Receiving  in  each  eddying  nook 
The  waters  of  the  vassal  brook, 

It  sweeps  more  deep  and  strong  ; 
Round  yon  green  island  it  divides, 
And  by  this  quiet  woodland  glides. 


THE    MINISINK. 

The  ground  bird  flutters  from  the  grass 

That  hides  her  tiny  nest, 
The  startled  deer,  as  by  I  pass, 

Bounds  in  the  thicket's  breast ; 
The  red-bird  rears  his  crimson  wing 
From  the  long  fern  of  yonder  spring, 

A  sweet  and  peaceful  rest 
Breathes  o'er  the  scene,  where  once  the  sound 
Of  battle  shook  the  gory  ground. 

Long  will  the  shuddering  hunter  tell 

How  once,  in  vengeful  wrath, 
Red  warriors  raised  their  fiercest  yell 

And  trod  their  bloodiest  path  ; 
How  oft  the  sire — the  babe — the  wife 
Shriek'd  vain  beneath  the  scalping  knife 

'Mid  havoc's  fiery  scathe  ; 
Until  the  boldest  quail'd  to  mark, 
Wrapp'd  round  the  woods,  Night's  mantle  dark. 

At  length  the  fisher  furl'd  his  sail 

Within  the  shelter'd  creek, 
The  hunter  trod  his  forest  trail 

The  mustering  band  to  seek ; 
The  settler  cast  his  axe  away, 
And  grasp'd  his  rifle  for  the  fray, 

All  came,  revenge  to  wreak — 
With  the  rude  arms  that  chance  supplied, 
And  die,  or  conquer,  side  by  side. 

Behind  the  footsteps  of  their  foe, 

They  rush'd,  a  gallant  throng, 
Burning  with  haste,  to  strike  a  blow 

For  each  remembered  wrong  ; 


19 


20  THE    MINISINK. 

Here  on  this  field  of  Minisink, 
Fainting  they  sought  the  river's  brink 

Where  cool  waves  gush'd  along  ; 
No  sound  within  the  woods  they  heard. 
But  murmuring  wind  and  warbling  bird. 

A  shriek  ! — 'tis  but  the  panther's — nought 

Breaks  the  calm  sunshine  there, 
A  thicket  stirs  ! — a  deer  has  sought 

From  sight  a  closer  lair  ; 
Again  upon  the  grass  they  droop, 
When  burst  the  well-known  whoop  on  whoop 

Shrill,  deafening  on  the  air, 
And  bounding  from  their  ambush'd  gloom, 
Like  wolves  the  savage  warriors  come. 

In  vain  upsprung  that  gallant  band 

And  seized  their  weapons  by, 
Fought  eye  to  eye,  and  hand  to  hand, 

Alas  !  'twas  but  to  die ; 
In  vain  the  rifle's  skilful  flash 
Scorch'd  eagle  plume  and  wampum  sash  ; 

The  hatchet  hiss'd  on  high, 
And  down  they  fell  in  crimson  heaps, 
Like  the  ripe  corn  the  sickle  reaps. 

In  vain  they  sought  the  covert  dark, 

The  red  knife  gash'd  each  head, 
Each  arrow  found  unerring  mark, 

Till  earth  was  piPd  with  dead. 
Oh  !  long  the  matron  watch'd,  to  hear 
Some  voice  and  footstep  meet  her  ear, 

Till  hope  grew  faint  with  dread  ; 
Long  did  she  search  the  wood-paths  o'er, 
That  voice  and  step  she  heard  no  more. 


MORNING  MUSINGS  AMONG  THE  HILLS.  21 

Years  have  pass'd  by,  the  merry  bee 

Hums  round  the  laurel  flowers, 
The  mock-bird  pours  her  melody 

Amid  the  forest  bowers  ; 
A  skull  is  at  my  feet,  though  now 
The  wild  rose  wreathes  its  bony  brow, 

Relic  of  other  hours. 
It  bids  the  wandering  pilgrim  think 
Of  those  who  died  at  Minisink. 


MORNING  MUSINGS  AMONG  THE  HILLS. 

BY   JONATHAN   LAWRENCE,    JUN. 

THE  morn  !  the  morn,  this  mountain  breeze, 
How  pure  it  seems,  from  earth  how  free  ; 

What  sweet  and  sad  moralities 
Breathe  from  this  air  that  comes  to  me. 

Look  down,  my  spirit !  see  below, 

Earth  darkly  sleeps  were  shades  prevail, 

Or  wakes  to  tears  that  vainly  flow, 
Or  dreams  of  hopes  that  surely  fail. 

Why  should'st  thou  linger  there,  and  burn 
With  passions  like  these  fools  of  time  ? 

Unfold  thy  wings,  their  follies  spurn, 
And  soar  to  yon  eternal  clime. 


22  MORNING    MUSINGS    AMONG    THE    HILLS. 

Look  round,  my  spirit !  to  these  hills 
The  earliest  sunlight  lends  its  ray  ; 

Morning's  pure  air  these  far  heights  fills, 
Here  evening  holiest  steals  away. 

Thus  when  with  firm-resolving  breast, 

Though  bound  to  earth  thou  liv'st  on  high, 

Shalt  thou  with  earlier  light  be  blest, 
More  purely  live,  more  calmly  die. 

>       *  *:  *£r  ^ 

This  darkling  dawn,  doth  it  not  bring 

Yisions  of  former  glory  back  ? 
Arouse,  my  spirit !  plume  thy  wing, 

And  soar  with  me  on  holier  track. 

Canst  thou  not  with  unclouded  eye, 
And  fancy-rapt,  the  scene  survey, 

When  darkness  bade  its  shadows  fly, 
And  earth  rose  glorious  into  day  ? 

Canst  thou  not  see  that  earth,  its  S  pring 
Unfaded  yet  by  death  or  crime, 

In  freshest  green,  yet  mellowing 
Into  the  gorgeous  Autumn's  prime  1 

Dost  thou  not  see  the  eternal  choir 

Light  on  each  peak  that  wooes  the  sky, 

Fold  their  broad  wings  of  golden  fire, 
And  string  their  seraph  minstrelsy  1 

Then  what  sublimest  music  filled 
Rejoicing  heaven  and  rising  earth, 

"When  angel  harps  the  chorus  swelled, 
And  stars  hymned  forth  creation's  birth. 


SONG.  23 


See  how  the  sun  comes  proudly  on 
His  glorious  march  !  before  our  sight 

The  swathing  mists,  their  errand  done, 
Are  melting  into  morning  light. 

He  tips  the  peak,  its  dark  clouds  fly, 
He  walks  its  sides,  and  shades  retreat; 

He  pours  his  flood  of  radiancy 

On  streams  and  lowlands  at  its  feet. 

Lord  !  let  thy  rays  thus  pierce,  illume 
Each  dim  recess  within  my  heart ; 

From  its  deep  darkness  chase  all  gloom, 
And  to  its  weakness  strength  impart. 

Thus  let  thy  light  upon  me  rise, 
Here  let  my  home  for  ever  be  ; 

Far  above  earth,  its  toys  and  ties, 
Yet  humbly  kneeling,  Lord,  to  thee  ! 


SONG. 

BY  J.   R.    DRAKE. 

Ob:  1820,  rftf.25. 

NAY,  think  not,  dear  Lais,  I  feel  a  regret 
That  another  awakened  thy  sigh, 

Or  repine  that  some  traces  remain  of  it  yet 
In  the  beam  of  that  eloquent  eye. 


24  THE    DEAD    OF    1832. 

Though  the  light  of  its  smile  on  a  rival  had  shone 

Ere  it  taught  me  the  way  to  adore, 
Shall  I  scorn  the  bright  gem  now  I  know  it  my  own, 

Because  it  was  polished  before  ? 

And  though  oft  the  rich  sweets  of  that  lip  hath  been  won, 

It  but  fits  it  the  better  for  bliss  ; 
As  fruit,  when  caressed  by  the  bright  glowing  sun, 

Grows  ripe  from  the  warmth  of  his  kiss. 


THE    DEAD    OP    1832. 

BY   R.    C.    SANDS.. 

Ob:  1832,^.33. 

OH  Time  and  Death  !  with  certain  pace, 
Though  still  unequal,  hurrying  on, 

O'erturning,  in  your  awful  race, 
The  cot,  the  palace,  and  the  throne  ! 

Not  always  in  the  storm  of  war, 
Nor  by  the  pestilence  that  sweeps 

From  the  plague-smitten  realms  afar, 
Beyond  the  old  and  solemn  deeps  : 

In  crowds  the  good  and  mighty  go, 
And  to  those  vast  dim  chambers  hie  : — 

Where,  mingled  with  the  high  and  low, 
Dead  Caesars  and  dead  Shakspeares  lie  ! 


THE    DEAD    OF    1832.  25 

Dread  Ministers  of  God  !  sometimes 

Ye  smite  at  once,  to  do  His  will, 
In  all  earth's  ocean-sever'd  climes, 

Those — whose  renown  ye  cannot  kill ! 

When  all  the  brightest  stars  that  burn 
At  once  are  banished  from  their  spheres, 

Men  sadly  ask,  when  shall  return 
Such  lustre  to  the  coming  years  ? 

f 

For  where  is  he* — who  lived  so  long — 

Who  raised  the  modern  Titan's  ghost, 
And  showed  his  fate,  in  powerful  song, 
Whose  soul  for  learning's  sake  was  lost  ? 

Where  he — who  backwards  to  the  birth 

Of  Time  itself,  adventurous  trod, 
And  in  the  mingled  mass  of  earth 

Found  out  the  handiwork  of  God  ?  t 

Where  he — who  in  the  mortal  head,t 
Ordained  to  gaze  on  heaven,  could  trace 

The  soul's  vast  features,  that  shall  tread 
The  stars,  when  earth  is  nothingness  ? 

Where  he — who  struck  old  Albyn's  lyre,§ 
Till  round  the  world  its  echoes  roll, 

And  swept,  with  all  a  prophet's  fire, 
The  diapason  of  the  soul  ? 

Where  he — who  read  the  mystic  lore,  II 
Buried,  where  buried  Pharaohs  sleep  ; 

And  dared  presumptuous  to  explore 

Secrets  four  thousand  years  could  keep  ? 

*  Goethe  and  his  Faust,    t  Cuvier,    I  Spurzheim.    §  Scott.    II  Champollion. 

4 


6  THE    DEAD    OF    1832- 

Where  he — who  with  a  poet's  eye* 
Of  truth,  on  lowly  nature  gazed, 

And  made  even  sordid  Poverty 
Classic,  when  in  HIS  numbers  glazed? 

Where — that  old  sage  so  hale  and  staid,t 
The  "greatest  good"  who  sought  to  find; 

Who  in  his  garden  mused,  and  made 
All  forms  of  rule,  for  all  mankind  ? 

And  thou — whom  millions  far  removed  t 
Revered — the  hierarch  meek  and  wise, 

Thy  ashes  sleep,  adored,  beloved, 
Near  where  thy  Wesley's  coffin  lies. 

He  too — the  heir  of  glory — where  § 
Hath  great  Napoleon's  scion  fled  ? 

Ah  !  glory  goes  not  to  an  heir  ! 
Take  him,  ye  noble,  vulgar  dead  ! 

But  hark !  a  nation  sighs  !  for  he,  II 
Last  of  the  brave  who  perilled  all 

To  make  an  infant  empire  free, 
Obeys  the  inevitable  call ! 

They  go — and  with  them  is  a  crowd, 

For  human  rights  who  THOUGHT  and  DID^ 
We  rear  to  them  no  temples  proud, 
Each  hath  his  mental  pyramid. 

All  earth  is  now  their  sepulchre, 
The  MIND,  their  monument  sublime — 

Young  in  eternal  fame  they  are — 
Such  are  YOUR  triumphs,  Death  and  Time. 

*  Crabbe.  t  Jeremy  Bentham.  t  Adam  Clarke. 

§  The  Duke  of  Reichstadt.      II  Charles  Carroll. 


TO    A   LADY 

WHO  DECLARED  THAT  THE  SUN  PREVENTED  HER  FROM  SLEEPING, 

BY  J.  R.  DRAKE. 

WHY  blame  old  Sol,  who,  all  on  fire, 
Prints  on  your  lip  the  burning  kiss ; 

Why  should  he  not  your  charms  admire, 
And  dip  his  beam  each  morn  in  bliss  ? 

Were  't  mine  to  guide  o'er  paths  of  light 
The  beam-haired  coursers  of  the  sky, 

I'd  stay  their  course  the  livelong  night 
To  gaze  upon  thy  sleeping  eye. 

Then  let  the  dotard  fondly  spring, 
Each  rising  day,  to  snatch  the  prize  ; 

'Twill  add  new  vigour  to  his  wing, 

And  speed  his  journey  through  the  skies. 


ADDRESS  TO  A  MUSQUITO. 

BY   EDWARD   SANFORD. 

His  voice  was  ever  soft,  gentle,  and  low. — King  Lear. 

THOU  sweet  musician,  that  around  my  bed 
Dost  nightly  come  and  wind  thy  little  horn, 

By  what  unseen  and  secret  influence  led, 

Feed'st  thou  my  ear  with  music  till  'tis  mom  ? 


, 

* 

28  ADDRESS    TO    A    MUSQUITO. 

The  wind  harp's  tones  are  not  more  soft  than  thine. 
The  hum  of  falling  waters  not  more  sweet, 

I  own,  indeed,  I  own  thy  song  divine. 

And  when  next  year's  warm  summer  nights  we  meet, 

(Till  then,  farewell !)  I  promise  thee  to  be 

A  patient  listener  to  thy  minstrelsy. 

Thou  tiny  minstrel,  who  bid  thee  discourse 

Such  eloquent  music  ?  was't  thy  tuneful  sire  ? 
Some  old  musician  ?  or  did'st  take  a  course 

Of  lessons  from  some  master  of  the  lyre  ? 
Who  bid  thee  twang  so  sweetly  thy  small  trump  ? 

Did  Norton  form  thy  notes  so  clear  and  full  ? 
Art  a  phrenologist,  and  is  the  bump 

Of  song  developed  on  thy  little  skull  ? 
At  Niblo's  hast  thou  been  when  crowds  stood  mute 
Drinking  the  birdlike  tones  of  Cuddy's  flute  ? 

Tell  me  the  burden  of  thy  ceaseless  song, 

Is  it  thy  evening  hymn  of  grateful  prayer, 
Or  lay  of  love,  thou  pipest  through  the  long 

Still  night  ?    With  song  dost  drive  away  dull  care  ? 
Art  thou  a  vieux  garcon,  a  gay  deceiver, 

A  wandering  blade,  roaming  in  search  of  sweets, 
Pledging  thy  faith  to  every  fond  believer, 

Who  thy  advance  with  half-way  shyness  meets  ? 
Or  art  o'  the  softer  sex,  and  sing'st  in  glee, 
"  In  maiden  meditation,  fancy  free  ?" 

Thou  little  Syren,  when  the  nymphs  of  yore 

Charmed  with  their  songs  till  men  forgot  to  dine, 

And  starved,  though  music-fed,  upon  their  shore, 
Their  voices  breathed  no  softer  lays  than  thine, 


ADDRESS    TO    A    MUSQUITO.  29 

They  sang  but  to  entice,  and  thou  dost  sing 

As  if  to  lull  our  senses  to  repose, 
That  thou  may'st  use,  unharmed,  thy  little  sting 

The  very  moment  we  begin  to  doze ; 
Thou  worse  than  Syren,  thirsty,  fierce  blood-sipper, 
Thou  living  Vampyre,  and  thou  Gallinipper  ! 

Nature  is  full  of  music,  sweetly  sings 

The  bard,  (and  thou  dost  sing  most  sweetly  too,) 
Through  the  wide  circuit  of  created  things, 

Thou  art  the  living  proof  the  bard  sings  true. 
Nature  is  full  of  thee  ;  on  every  shore, 

'Neath  the  hot  sky  of  Congo's  dusky  child, 
From  warm  Peru  to  icy  Labrador, 

The  world's  free  citizen  thou  roamest  wild. 
Wherever  "  mountains  rise  or  oceans  roll," 
Thy  voice  is  heard,  from  "  Indus  to  the  Pole." 

The  incarnation  of  Queen  Mab  art  thou, 

"  The  Fairies'  midwife  ;" — thou  dost  nightly  sip, 
With  amorous  proboscis  bending  low, 

The  honey  dew  from  many  a  lady's  lip — 
(Though  that  they  "  straight  on  kisses  dream,"  I  doubt) 

On  smiling  faces,  and  on  eyes  that  weep, 
Thou  lightest,  and  oft  with  "  sympathetic  snout" 

"  Ticklest  men's  noses  as  they  lie  asleep ;" 
And  sometimes  dwellest,  if  I  rightly  scan, 
"  On  the  fore-finger  of  an  alderman." 


Yet  thou  can'st  glory  in  a  noble  birth. 

As  rose  the  sea-born  Venus  from  the  wave, 
So  didst  thou  rise  to  life  ;  the  teeming  earth, 

The  living  water,  and  the  fresh  air  gave 


30  ADDRESS    TO    A    MUSQ,UITO. 

A  portion  of  their  elements  to  create 

Thy  little  form,  though  beauty  dwells  not  there. 
So  lean  and  gaunt,  that  economic  fate 

Meant  thee  to  feed  on  music  or  on  air. 
Our  vein's  pure  juices  were  not  made  for  thee, 
Thou  living,  singing,  stinging  atomy. 

The  hues  of  dying  sunset  are  most  fair, 

And  twilight's  tints  just  fading  into  night, 
Most  dusky  soft,  and  so  thy  soft  notes  are 

By  far  the  sweetest  when  thou  tak'st  thy  flight. 
The  swan's  last  note  is  sweetest,  so  is  thine ; 

Sweet  are  the  wind  harp's  tones  at  distance  heard  ; 
'Tis  sweet  in  distance  at  the  day's  decline, 

To  hear  the  opening  song  of  evening's  bird. 
But  notes  of  harp  or  bird  at  distance  float 
Less  sweetly  on  the  ear  than  thy  last  note. 

The  autumn  winds  are  wailing  :  'tis  thy  dirge  ; 

Its  leaves  are  sear,  prophetic  of  thy  doom. 
Soon  the  cold  rain  will  whelm  thee,  as  the  surge 

Whelms  the  tost  mariner  in  its  watery  tomb, 
Then  soar,  and  sing  thy  little  life  away  ! 

Albeit  thy  voice  is  somewhat  husky  now. 
'Tis  well  to  end  in  music  life's  last  day, 

Of  one  so  gleeful  and  so  blithe  as  thou : 
For  thou  wilt  soon  live  through  its  joyous  hours, 
And  pass  away  with  Autumn's  dying  flowers. 


31 


INCONSTANCY. 

BY     J.     R.     DRAKE. 

YES  !  I  swore  to  be  true,  I  allow, 

And  I  meant  it,  but,  some  how  or  other, 

The  seal  of  that  amorous  vow 

Was  pressed  on  the  lips  of  another. 

Yet  I  did  but  as  all  would  have  done, 
For  where  is  the  being,  dear  cousin, 

Content  with  the  beauties  of  one 

When  he  might  have  the  range  of  a  dozen  ? 

Young  Love  is  a  changeable  boy, 

And  the  gem  of  the  sea-rock  is  like  him, 

For  he  gives  back  the  beams  of  his  joy 
To  each  sunny  eye  that  may  strike  him. 

From  a  kiss  of  a  zephyr  and  rose 
Love  sprang  in  an  exquisite  hour, 

And  fleeting  and  sweet,  heaven  knows, 
Is  this  child  of  a  sigh  and  a  flower. 


32 


THE    CALLICOON   IN   AUTUMN. 

BY    A.    B.    STREET. 

FAR  in  the  forest's  heart,  unknown, 

Except  to  sun  and  breeze, 
Where  solitude  her  dreaming  throne 

Has  held  for  centuries  ; 
Chronicled  by  the  rings  and  moss 
That  tell  the  flight  of  years  across 

The  seamed  and  columned  trees, 
This  lovely  streamlet  glides  along 
With  tribute  of  eternal  song  ! 

Now,  stealing  through  its  thickets  deep 

In  which  the  wood-duck  hides, 
Now,  picturing  in  its  basin  sleep 
Its  green  pool-hollowed  sides, 
Here,  through  the  pebbles  slow  it  creeps, 
There,  'mid  some  wild  abyss  it  sweeps, 

And  foaming,  hoarsely  chides  ; 
Then  slides  so  still,  its  gentle  swell 
Scarce  ripples  round  the  lily's  bell. 

Nature,  in  her  autumnal  dress 

Magnificent  and  gay, 
Displays  her  mantled  gorgeousness 

To  hide  the  near  decay, 
Which,  borne  on  Winter's  courier  breath, 
Warns  the  old  year  prepare  for  death, 

When,  tottering,  seared,  and  gray, 
Ice-fettered,  it  will  sink  below 
The  choking  winding-sheet  of  snow. 


THE    CALLICOON    IN    AUTUMN.  33 

A  blaze  of  splendour  is  around, 

As  wondrous  and  as  bright 
As  that,  within  the  fairy  ground, 

.  Which  met  Aladdin's  sight. 
The  sky,  a  sheet  of  silvery  sheen 
With  breaks  of  tenderest  blue  between, 

As  though  the  summer  light 
Was  melting  through,  once  more  to  cast 
A  glance  of  gladness  ere  it  passed. 


The  south-west  airs  of  ladened  balm 

Come  breathing  sweetly  by, 
And  wake  amid  the  forest's  calm 
One  quick  and  shivering  sigh, 
Shaking,  but  dimpling  not  the  glass 
Of  this  smooth  streamlet,  as  they  pass- 

They  scarcely  wheel  on  high 
The  thistle's  downy,  silver  star, 
To  waft  its  pendent  seed  afar. 


Dream-like  the  silence,  only  woke 

By  the  grasshopper's  glee, 
And  now  and  then  the  lazy  stroke 

Of  woodcock  *  on  the  tree : 
And  mingling  with  the  insect  hum, 
The  beatings  of  the  partridge  drum, 

With  frequently  a  bee 
Darting  its  music,  and  the  crow 
Harsh  cawing  from  the  swamp  below. 

*  Not  the  sportsman's  favourite  (scolopax  minor)  of  our  Atlantic  shores,  but 
the  large  crested  woodpecker,  so  called  in  the  western  counties. 

5 


34  THE    CALLICOON    IN    AUTUMN. 

A  foliage  world  of  glittering  dyes 

Gleams  brightly  on  the  air, 
As  though  a  thousand  sunset  skies, 

With  rainbows,  blended  there  ; 
Each  leaf  an  opal,  and  each  tree 
A  bower  of  varied  brilliancy, 

And  all  one  general  glare 
Of  glory,  that  o'erwhelms  the  sight 
With  dazzling  and  unequalled  light. 

Rich  gold  with  gorgeous  crimson,  here 

The  birch  and  maple  twine, 
The  beech  its  orange  mingles  near 

With  emerald  of  the  pine  ; 
And  e'en  the  humble  bush  and  herb 
Are  glowing  with  those  tints  superb, 

As  though  a  scattered  mine 
Of  gems,  upon  the  earth  were  strewn, 
Flashing  with  radiance,  each  its  own. 

All  steeped  in  that  delicious  charm 

Peculiar  to  our  land, 
Glimmering  in  mist,  rich,  purple,  warm, 

When  Indian  Summer's  hand 
Has  filled  the  valley  with  its  smoke, 
And  wrapped  the  mountain  in  its  cloak, 

While,  timidly  and  bland, 
The  sunbeams  struggle  from  the  sky, 
And  in  long  lines  of  silver  lie. 

The  squirrel  chatters  merrily, 
The  nut  falls  ripe  and  brown, 

And  gem-like  from  the  jewelled  tree 
The  leaf  comes  fluttering  down  ; 


THE    CALLICOON    IN    AUTUMN.  35 

And  restless  in  his  plumage  gay. 

From  bush  to  bush  loud  screams  the  jay, 

While  on  the  hemlock's  crown 
The  sentry  pigeon  guards  from  foes 
The  flock  that  dots  the  neighbouring  boughs. 

See  !  on  this  edge  of  forest  lawn, 

Where  sleeps  the  clouded  beam, 
A  doe  has  led  her  spotted  fawn 

To  gambol  by  the  stream ; 
Beside  yon  mullein's  braided  stalk 
They  hear  the  gurgling  voices  talk, 

While,  like  a  wandering  gleam, 
The  yellow-bird  dives  here  and  there, 
A  feathered  vessel  of  the  air. 

On,  through  the  rampart  walls  of  rock 

The  waters  pitch  in  white, 
And  high,  in  mist,  the  cedars  lock 

Their  boughs,  half  lost  to  sight 
Above  the  whirling  gulf — the  dash 
Of  frenzied  floods,  that  vainly  lash 

Their  limits  in  their  flight, 
Whose  roar  the  eagle,  from  his  peak, 
Responds  to  with  his  angriest  shriek. 

Stream  of  the  age-worn  forest !  here 

The  Indian,  free  as  thou, 
Has  bent  against  thy  depths  his  spear, 

And  in  thy  woods  his  bow  ; 
The  beaver  built  his  dome  ;  but  they, 
The  memories  of  an  earlier  day, 

Like  those  dead  trunks,  that  show 
What  once  were  mighty  pines — have  fled 
With  Time's  unceasing,  rapid  tread. 


36 


THE  WESTERN   HUNTER  TO  HIS  MISTRESS. 


BY   C.   F.   HOFFMAN. 


WEND,  love,  with  me,  to  the  deep  woods  wend, 

Where,  far  in  the  forest,  the  wild  flowers  keep, 
Where  no  watching  eye  shall  over  us  bend 

Save  the  blossoms  that  into  thy  bower  peep. 
Thou  shalt  gather  from  buds  of  the  oriole's  hue, 

Whose  flaming  wings  round  our  pathway  flit, 
From  the  safron  orchis  and  lupin  blue, 

And  those  like  the  foam  on  my  courser's  bit. 

One  steed  and  one  saddle  us  both  shall  bear, 

One  hand  of  each  on  the  bridle  meet  ; 
And  beneath  the  wrist  that  entwines  me  there 

An  answering  pulse  from  my  heart  shall  beat. 
I  will  sing  thee  many  a  joyous  lay, 

As  we  chase  the  deer  by  the  blue  lake-side, 
While  the  winds  that  over  the  prairie  play 

Shall  fan  the  cheek  of  my  woodland  bride. 

Our  home  shall  be  by  the  cool  bright  streams, 

Where  the  beaver  chooses  her  safe  retreat, 
And  our  hearth  shall  smile  like  the  sun's  warm  gleams 

Through  the  branches  around  our  lodge  that  meet. 
Then  wend  with  me,  to  the  deep  woods  wend, 

Where  far  in  the  forest  the  wild  flowers  keep, 
Where  no  watching  eye  shall  over  us  bend, 

Save  the  blossoms  that  into  thy  bower  peep. 


37 


A   POET'S    EPISTLE. 

[  Written  in  Scotland  to  Fitz-Greene  Halleck,  Esq.] 

BY  J.    R.    DRAKE. 

"  WEEL,  Fitz,  I'm  here  ;  the  mail's  the  pity, 
I'll  wad  ye  curse  the  vera  city 
From  which  I  write  a  braid  Scots  ditty 

Afore  I  learn  it ; 
But  gif  ye  canna  mak  it  suit  ye, 

Ye  ken  ye'll  burn  it. 

My  grunzie's  got  a  twist  until  it 

Thae  damn'd  Scotch  aighs  sae  stuff  and  fill  it 

I  doubt,  wi'  a'  my  doctor  skill,  it 

'11  keep  the  gait, 
Not  e'en  my  pen  can  scratch  a  billet 

And  write  it  straight. 

Ye're  aiblins  thinking  to  forgather 
Wi'  a  hale  sheet,  of  muir  and  heather 
O'  burns,  and  braes,  and  sic  like  blether, 

To  you  a  feast ; 
But  stop  !  ye  will  not  light  on  either 

This  time  at  least. 

Noo  stir  your  bries  a  wee  and  ferlie, 
Then  drap  your  lip  and  glower  surly  ; 
Troth  !  gif  ye  do,  I'll  tell  ye  fairly, 

Ye'll  no  be  right ; 
We've  made  our  jaunt  a  bit  too  early 

For  sic  a  sight. 


38 


What  it  may  be  when  summer  deeds 
Muir  shaw  and  brae,  wi'  bonnie  weeds 
Sprinkling  the  gowan  on  the  meads 

And  broomy  knowes, 
I  dinna  ken  ;  but  now  the  meads 

Scarce  keep  the  cows. 

For  trees,  puir  Scotia's  sadly  scanted, 
A  few  bit  pines  and  larches  planted, 
And  thae,  wee,  knurlie,  blastic,  stuntit 

As  e'er  thou  sawest ; 
Row  but  a  sma'  turf  fence  anent  it, 

Hech !  there's  a  forest. 

For  streams,  ye'll  find  a  puny  puddle 
That  would  na  float  a  shull  bairn's  coble, 
A  cripple  stool  might  near  hand  hobble 

Dry-baughted  ever ; 
Some  whinstone  crags  to  mak'  it  bubble, 

And  there's  a  river. 

And  then  their  cauld  and  reekie  skies, 
They  luke  ower  dull  to  Yankee  eyes ; 
The  sun  ye'd  ken  na  if  he's  rise 

Amaist  the  day ; 
Just  a  noon  blink  that  hardly  dries 

The  dewy  brae. 

Yet  leeze  auld  Scotland  on  her  women, 
Ilk  sonzie  lass  and  noble  yeoman, 
For  luver's  heart  or  blade  of  foeman 

O'er  baith  victorious ; 
E'en  common  sense,  that  plant  uncommon, 

Grows  bright  and  glorious. 


39 


Fecks  but  my  pen  has  skelp'd  alang, 
I've  whistled  out  an  unco  sang 
'Bout  folk  I  ha'  na  been  amang 

Twa  days  as  yet ; 
But,  faith,  the  farther  that  I  gang 

The  mair  ye'll  get. 

Sae  sharpen  up  your  lugs,  for  soon 
I'll  tread  the  hazelly  braes  o'  Doon, 
See  Mungo's  well,  and  set  my  shoon 

Where  i'  the  dark 
Bauld  Tammie  keek'd,  the  drunken  loon. 

At  cutty  sark. 

And  I  shall  tread  the  hallowed  bourne 
Where  Wallace  blew  his  bugle-horn 
O'er  Edward's  banner,  stained  and  torn. 

What  Yankee  bluid 
But  feels  its  free  pulse  leap  and  burn 

Where  Wallace  stood ! 

But  pouk  my  pen  !  I  find  I'm  droppin 
My  braw  Scots  style  to  English  loppin ; 
I  fear  amaist  that  ye'll  be  hoppin 

I'd  quit  it  quite  : 
If  so,  I  e'en  must  think  o7  stopping, 

And  sae,  gude  night. 


40 


WEEHAWKEN. 


BY   R.    C.    SANDS. 


EVE  o'er  our  path  is  stealing  fast ; 
Yon  quivering  splendours  are  the  last 
The  sun  will  fling,  to  tremble  o'er 
The  waves  that  kiss  the  opposing  shore ; 
His  latest  glories  fringe  the  height 
Behind  us,  with  their  golden  light. 

The  mountain's  mirror'd  outline  fades 
Amid  the  fast  extending  shades  ; 
Its  shaggy  bulk,  in  sterner  pride, 
Towers,  as  the  gloom  steals  o'er  the  tide ; 
For  the  great  stream  a  bulwark  meet 
That  laves  its  rock-encumbered  feet. 

River  and  Mountain  !  though  to  song 
Not  yet,  perchance,  your  names  belong  ; 
Those  who  have  loved  your  evening  hues 
Will  ask  not  the  recording  Muse, 
What  antique  tales  she  can  relate, 
Your  banks  and  steeps  to  consecrate. 

Yet  should  the  stranger  ask,  what  lore 
Of  by-gone  days,  this  winding  shore, 
Yon  cliffs  and  fir-clad  steeps  could  tell, 
If  vocal  made  by  Fancy's  spell, — 
The  varying  legend  might  rehearse 
Fit  themes  for  high,  romantic  verse. 


WEEHAWKEN. 

O'er  yon  rough  heights  and  moss-clad  sod 
Oft  hath  the  stalworth  warrior  trod  ; 
Or  peer'd,  with  hunter's  gaze,  to  mark 
The  progress  of  the  glancing  bark. 
Spoils,  strangely  won  on  distant  waves, 
Have  lurked  in  yon  obstructed  caves. 

When  the  great  strife  for  Freedom  rose 
Here  scouted  oft  her  friends  and  foes, 
Alternate,  through  the  changeful  war, 
And  beacon-fires  flashed  bright  and  far ; 
And  here,  when  Freedom's  strife  was  won, 
Fell,  in  sad  feud,  her  favoured  son  ; — 

Her  son, — the  second  of  the  band, . 
The  Romans  of  the  rescued  land. 
Where  round  yon  cape  the  banks  ascend, 
Long  shall  the  pilgrim's  footsteps  bend  ; 
There,  mirthful  hearts  shall  pause  to  sigh, 
There,  tears  shall  dim  the  patriot's  eye. 

There  last  he  stood.     Before  his  sight 
Flowed  the  fair  river,  free  and  bright ; 
The  rising  Mart,  and  Isles,  and  Bay, 
Before  him  in  their  glory  lay, — 
Scenes  of  his  love  and  of  his  fame, — • 
The  instant  ere  the  death-shot  came. 


41 


LINES  WRITTEN  ON  A  BANK  NOTE. 


BY   T.    W.   TUCKER. 


THOU  fragile  thing 
That  with  a  breath  I  could  destroy, 
What  mighty  train  of  care  and  joy 

Do  ye  not  bring  ? 

Emblem  of  power  ! 
By  thee  comes  public  bane  or  good  ; 
The  wheels  of  state,  without  thee,  would 

Stop  in  an  hour. 

Tower,  dome,  and  arch, 
Thou  spreadest  o'er  the  desert  waste, 
Thou  guid'st  the  path  of  war,  and  stay'st 

The  army's  march. 

The  spreading  seas 
For  thee  unnumbered  scjuadrons  bear, 
Ruler  of  earth,  and  sea,  and  air  — 

When  bended  knees 

Are  bowed  in  prayer, 
Although  to  heaven  is  given  each  word, 
Thy  influence  in  the  heart,  unheard, 

Is  upmost  there  ! 

Fly!  minion,  fly! 
Thine  errand  is  unfinished  yet  — 
The  boon  I  covet,  —  to  forget  ! 

Thou  canst  not  buy. 


43 

» 

THE  DELAWARE  WATER-GAP. 


BY   MRS.    E.    F.    ELLET. 


OUR  Western  land  can  boast  no  lovelier  spot. 
The  hills  which  in  their  ancient  grandeur  stand. 
Piled  to  the  frowning  clouds,  the  bulwarks  seem 
Of  this  wild  scene,  resolved  that  none  but  Heaven 
Shall  look  upon  its  beauty.    Round  their  breast 
A  curtained  fringe  depends,  of  golden  mist, 
Touched  by  the  slanting  sunbeams  ;  while  below 
The  silent  river,  with  majestic  sweep, 
Pursues  his  shadowed  way, — his  glassy  face 
Unbroken,  save  when  stoops  the  lone  wild  swan 
To  float  in  pride,  or  dip  his  ruffled  wing. 
Talk  ye  of  solitude  ? — It  is  not  here. 
Nor  silence. — Low,  deep  murmurs  are  abroad. 
Those  towering  hills  hold  converse  with  the  sky 
That  smiles  upon  their  summits ; — and  the  wind 
Which  stirs  their  wooded  sides,  whispers  of  life, 
And  bears  the  burthen  sweet  from  leaf  to  leaf, 
Bidding  the  stately  forest  boughs  look  bright, 
And  nod  to  greet  his  coming ! — And  the  brook, 
That  with  its  silvery  gleam  comes  leaping  down 
From  the  hill-side,  has,  too,  a  tale  to  tell ; 
The  wild  bird's  music  mingles  with  its  chime  ; — 
And  gay  young  flowers,  that  blossom  in  its  path, 
Send  forth  their  perfume  as  an  added  gift. 
The  river  utters,  too,  a  solemn  voice, 
And  tells  of  deeds  long  past,  in  ages  gone, 
When  not  a  sound  was  heard  along  his  shores, 
Save  the  wild  tread  of  savage  feet,  or  shriek 
Of  some  expiring  captive, — and  no  bark 
E'er  cleft  his  gloomy  waters.     Now,  his  waves 
Are  vocal  often  with  the  hunter's  song ; — 


44  THE    DELAWARE    WATER-GAP. 

Now  visit,  in  their  glad  and  onward  course. 
The  abodes  of  happy  men — gardens  and  fields— 
And  cultured  plains — still  bearing,  as  they  pass, 
Fertility  renewed  and  fresh  delights. 

The  time  has  been, — so  Indian  legends  say, — 
When  here  the  mighty  Delaware  poured  not 
His  ancient  waters  through — but  turned  aside 
Through  yonder  dell,  and  washed  those  shaded  vales. 
Then,  too,  these  riven  cliffs  were  one  smooth  hill, 
Which  smiled  in  the  warm  sunbeams,  and  displayed 
The  wealth  of  summer  on  its  graceful  slope. 
Thither  the  hunter  chieftains  oft  repaired 
To  light  their  council  fires, — while  its  dim  height, 
For  ever  veiled  in  mist,  no  mortal  dared — 
JTis  said — to  scale  ;  save  one  white-haired  old  man, 
Who  there  held  commune  with  the  Indian's  God, 
And  thence  brought  down  to  men  his  high  commands. 
Years  pased  away — the  gifted  seer  had  lived 
Beyond  life's  natural  term,  and  bent  no  more 
His  weary  limbs  to  seek  the  mountain's  summit. 
New  tribes  had  filled  the  land,  of  fiercer  mien, 
Who  strove  against  each  other.     Blood  and  death 
Filled  those  green  shades,  where  all  before  was  peace, 
And  the  stern  warrior  scalped  his  dying  captive 
E'en  on  the  precincts  of  that  holy  spot 
Where  the  Great  Spirit  had  been.    Some  few,  who  mourned 
The  unnatural  slaughter,  urged  the  aged  priest 
Again  to  seek  the  consecrated  height, 
Succour  from  heaven,  and  mercy  to  implore. — 
They  watched  him  from  afar.     He  laboured  slowly 
High  up  the  steep  ascent — and  vanished  soon 
Behind  the  folded  clouds,  which  clustered  dark 
As  the  last  hues  of  sunset  passed  away. 
The  night  fell  heavily — and  soon  were  heard 


THE    DELAWARE    WATER-GAP. 


45 


Low  tones  of  thunder  from  the  mountain  top. 

Muttering,  and  echoed  from  the  distant  hills 

In  deep  and  solemn  peal, — while  lurid  flashes 

Of  lightning  rent  anon  the  gathering  gloom. 

Then  wilder  and  more  loud,  a  fearful  crash 

Burst  on  the  startled  ear  ; — the  earth,  convulsed, 

Groaned  from  its  solid  centre — forests  shook 

For  leagues  around, — and  by  the  sudden  gleam 

Which  flung  a  fitful  radiance  on  the  spot, 

A  sight  of  dread  was  seen.     The  mount  was  rent 

From  top  to  base — and  where  so  late  had  smiled 

Green  boughs  and  blossoms — yawned  a  frightful  chasm, 

Filled  with  unnatural  darkness. — From  afar 

The  distant  roar  of  waters  then  was  heard ; 

They  came — with  gathering  sweep — o'erwhelming  all 

That  checked  their  headlong  course ; — the  rich  maize  field, — 

The  low-roofed  hut — its  sleeping  inmates — all — 

Were  swept  in  speedy,  undistinguished  ruin. 

Morn  looked  upon  the  desolated  scene 

Of  the  Great  Spirit's  anger — and  beheld 

Strange  waters  passing  through  the  cloven  rocks : — 

And  men  looked  on  in  silence  and  in  fear, 

And  far  removed  their  dwellings  from  the  spot, 

Where  now  no  more  the  hunter  chased  his  prey, 

Or  the  war-whoop  was  heard. — Thus  years  went  on : 

Each  trace  of  desolation  vanished  fast ; 

Those  bare  and  blackened  cliffs  were  overspread 

With  fresh  green  foliage,  and  the  swelling  earth 

Yielded  her  stores  of  flowers  to  deck  their  sides. 

The  river  passed  majestically  on 

Through  his  new  channel — verdure  graced  his  banks  ; — 

The  wild  bird  murmured  sweetly  as  before 

In  its  beloved  woods, — and  nought  remained,— 

Save  the  wild  tales  which  chieftains  told, — 

To  mark  the  change  celestial  vengeance  wrought. 


46 


SONG    OF    THE    HERMIT    TROUT. 


BY   W.   P.    HAWES. 

DOWN  in  the  deep 

Dark  holes  I  keep, 
And  there  in  the  noontide  I  float  and  sleep, 

By  the  hemlock  log, 

And  the  springing  bog, 
And  the  arching  alders,  I  lie  incog. 

The  angler's  fly 

Comes  dancing  by, 
But  never  a  moment  it  cheats  my  eye  ; 

For  the  hermit  trout 

Is  not  such  a  lout 
As  to  be  by  a  wading  boy  pulled  out. 

King  of  the  brook, 

No  fisher's  hook 
Fills  me  with  dread  of  the  sweaty  cook ; 

But  here  I  lie, 

And  laugh  as  they  try  ; 
Shall  I  bite  at  their  bait?     No,  no  ;  not  I ! 

But  when  the  streams, 

With  moonlight  beams, 
Sparkle  all  silver,  and  starlight  gleams, 

Then,  then  look  out 

For  the  hermit  trout ; 

For  he  springs  and  dimples  the  shallows  about, 
While  the  tired  angler  dreams. 


47 


TO   MAY. 

BY   JONATHAN   LAWRENCE,   JUN. 

COME,  gentle  May ! 
Co  me  with  thy  robe  of  flowers. 
Come  with  thy  sun  and  sky,  thy  clouds  and  showers ; 

Come,  and  bring  forth  unto  the  eye  of  day, 
From  their  imprisoning  and  mysterious  night, 
The  buds  of  many  hues,  the  children  of  thy  light. 

Come,  wondrous  May ! 
For  at  the  bidding  of  thy  magic  wand, 
Q,uick  from  the  caverns  of  the  breathing  land, 

In  all  their  green  and  glorious  array 
They  spring,  as  spring  the  Persian  maids  to  hail 
Thy  flushing  footsteps  in  Cashmerian  vale. 

Come,  vocal  May ! 
Come  with  thy  train,  that  high 
On  some  fresh  branch  pour  out  their  melody ; 

Or  carolling  thy  praise  the  live-long  day, 
Sit  perched  in  some  lone  glen,  on  echo  calling, 
'Mid  murmuring  woods  and  musical  waters  falling. 

Come,  sunny  May ! 
Come  with  thy  laughing  beam, 
What  time  the  lazy  mist  melts  on  the  stream, 

Or  seeks  the  mountain-top  to  meet  thy  ray, 
Ere  yet  the  dew-drop  on  thine  own  soft  flower 
Hath  lost  its  light,  or  died  beneath  his  power. 


48  TO    MAY. 

Come,  holy  May ! 

When  sunk  behind  the  cold  and  western  hill, 
His  light  hath  ceased  to  play  on  leaf  and  rill, 

And  twilight's  footsteps  hasten  his  decay ; 
Come  with  thy  musings,  and  my  heart  shall  be 
Like  a  pure  temple  consecrate  to  thee. 

Come,  beautiful  May  ! 
Like  youth  and  loveliness, 
Like  her  I  love  ;  Oh,  come  in  thy  full  dress, 

The  drapery  of  dark  winter  cast  away ; 
To  the  bright  eye  and  the  glad  heart  appear, 
Queen  of  the  Spring  and  mistress  of  the  year. 

Yet,  lovely  May  ! 

Teach  her  whose  eye  shall  rest  upon  this  rhyme 
To  spurn  the  gilded  mockeries  of  time, 

The  heartless  pomp  that  beckons  to  betray, 
And  keep,  as  thou  wilt  find,  that  heart  each  year, 
Pure  as  thy  dawn,  and  as  thy  sunset  clear. 

And  let  me  too,  sweet  May  ! 
Let  thy  fond  votary  see, 
As  fade  thy  beauties,  all  the  vanity 

Of  this  world's  pomp  ;  then  teach,  that  though  decay 
In  his  short  winter,  bury  beauty's  frame, 

In  fairer  worlds  the  soul  shall  break  his  sway, 
Another  Spring  shall  bloom  eternal  and  the  same. 


49 


TO    THE    WHIP-POOR-WILL 

BY   MRS.   E.    F.    ELLET. 

BIRD  of  the  lone  and  joyless  night — 
Whence  is  thy  sad  and  solemn  lay  ? 

Attendant  on  the  pale  moon's  light, 
Why  shun  the  garish  blaze  of  day? 

When  darkness  fills  the  dewy  air, 
Nor  sounds  the  song  of  happier  bird, 

Alone  amid  the  silence  there 
Thy  wild  and  plaintive  note  is  heard. 

Thyself  unseen — thy  pensive  moan 
Poured  in  no  loving  comrade's  ear — 

The  forest's  shaded  depths  alone 
That  mournful  melody  can  hear. 

Beside  what  still  and  secret  spring, 
In  what  dark  wood,  the  livelong  day, 

Sit'st  thou  with  dusk  and  folded  wing, 
To  while  the  hours  of  light  away. 

Sad  minstrel !  thou  hast  learned  like  me, 
That  life's  deceitful  gleam  is  vain ; 

And  well  the  lesson  profits  thee, 
Who  will  not  trust  its  charms  again  ! 

Thou,  unbeguiled,  thy  plaint  dost  trill, 
To  listening  night  when  mirth  is  o'er  : 

I,  heedless  of  the  warning,  still 
Believe,  to  be  deceived  once  more ! 

7 


50 


CHANSONETTE. 

BY    C.    F.     HOFFMAN. 

THEY  are  mockery  all,  those  skies !  those  skies  ! 

Their  untroubled  depths  of  blue  ; 
They  are  mockery  all,  these  eyes  !  these  eyes  ! 

Which  seem  so  warm  and  true  ; 
Each  quiet  star  in  the  one  that  lies, 
Each  meteor  glance  that  at  random  flies 

The  other's  lashes  through. 
They  are  mockery  all,  these  flowers  of  Spring, 

Which  her  airs  so  softly  woo  ; 
And  the  love  to  which  we  would  madly  cling, 

Ay !  it  is  mockery  too. 
For  the  winds  are  false  which  the  perfume  stir, 

And  the  lips  deceive  to  which  we  sue, 
And  love  but  leads  to  the  sepulchre  ; 

Which  flowers  spring  to  strew. 


THE    CLOUDS. 

BY   JONATHAN   LAWRENCE,   JUN. 

THE  clouds  have  their  own  language  unto  me 
They  have  told  many  a  tale  in  by-gone  days, 

At  twilight's  hour,  when  gentle  reverie 

Steals  o'er  the  heart,  as  tread  the  elfish  fays 

With  their  fleet  footsteps  on  the  moonlit  grass, 

And  leave  their  storied  circles  where  they  pass. 


THE    CLOUDS.  51 

So,  even  so,  to  me  the  embracing  clouds, 

With  their  pure  thoughts  leave  holy  traces  here ; 

And  from  the  tempest-gathered  fold  that  shrouds 
The  darkening  earth,  unto  the  blue,  and  clear, 

And  sunny  brightness  of  yon  arching  sky, 

They  have  their  language  and  their  melody. 

Have  you  not  felt  it  when  the  dropping  rain 

From  the  soft  showers  of  Spring  hath  clothed  the  earth 

With  its  unnumbered  offspring  ?  felt  not  when 
The  conquering  sun  hath  proudly  struggled  forth 

In  misty  radiance,  until  cloud  and  spot 

Were  blended  in  one  brightness  ?     Can  you  not 

Look  out  and  love  when  the  departing  sun 

Enrobes  their  peaks  in  shapes  fantastical 
In  his  last  splendour,  and  reflects  upon 

Their  skirts  his  farewell  smile  ere  shadows  fall 
Above  his  burial,  like  our  boyhood's  gleams 
Of  fading  light,  or  like  the  "  stuff  of  dreams  T 

Or  giving  back  those  tints  indefinite, 

Yet  brightly  blending,  there  to  form  that  arch 

Whereon  the  angel-spirits  of  the  light 

Marshalled  their  joyous  and  triumphant  march, 

When  sank  the  whelming  waters,  and  again 

Left  the  green  islands  to  the  sons  of  men  ? 

Oh,  then  as  rose  each  lofty  pile,  and  threw 

Its  growing  shadow  on  the  sinking  tide, 
How  glowed  each  peak  with  the  resplendent  hue, 

As  its  new  lustre  told  that  wrath  had  died, 
Till  the  blue  waves  within  their  limits  curled, 
And  that  broad  bow  in  beauty  spanned  the  world. 


S  THE   CLOWS. 

Gaze  yet  again,  and  you  may  see  on  high 
The  opposing  hosts  that  mutter  as  they  form 

Their  stern  battalions,  ere  the  artillery 

Bids  the  destroying  angel  guide  its  storm ; 

If  you  have  heard  on  battle's  eve  the  low 

Defiance  quickly  uttered  to  the  foe, 

When  the  firm  ranks  gaze  fiercely  brow  on  brow 
And  eye  on  eye,  while  every  heart  beats  fast 

With  hopes  and  fears,  all  feel,  but  none  avow, 
Pulsations  which  perchance  may  be  their  last, 

Whom  the  unhonoured  sepulchre  shall  shroud  ; 

If  you  have  seen  this,  gaze  upon  that  cloud. 

How  from  the  bosom  of  its  blackness  springs 
The  cleaving  lightning  kindling  on  its  way, 

Flinging  such  blinding  glory  from  its  wings, 
That  he  who  looks  grows  drunk  with  its  array 

Of  power  and  beauty,  till  his  eye  is  dim, 

And  dazzling  darkness  overshadows  him. 

Oh,  God  !  can  he  conceive  who  hath  not  known 
The  wondrous  workings  of  thy  firmament, 

Thine  untold  majesty,  around  whose  throne 
They  stand,  thy  winged  messengers,  or  sent 

In  light  or  darkness  on  their  destined  path, 

Bestow  thy  blessings  or  direct  thy  wrath. 

Then  here,  in  this  thy  lower  temple,  here 
We  kneel  to  thee  in  worship  ;  what  to  these 

Symbols  of  thine,  wherein  thou  dost  appear 
Are  painted  domes  or  priestly  palaces  ; 

On  this  green  turf,  and  gazing  on  yon  sphere, 
We  call  on  thee  to  commune  and  to  bless, 

And  see  in  holy  fancy  each  pure  sigh 

Ascend  like  incense  to  thy  throne  on  high. 


53 


THE   ISLE    OF   REST. 


BY   MRS.    E.    F.   ELLET. 

Some  of  the  islands  where  the  fancied  paradise  of  the  Indians  was  situated,  were 
believed  to  be  in  Lake  Superior. 

THAT  blessed  isle  lies  far  away — 

'Tis  many  a  weary  league  from  land, 
Where  billows  in  their  golden  play 

Dash  on  its  sparkling  sand. 
No  tempest's  wrath,  or  stormy  waters'  roar, 
Disturb  the  echoes  of  that  peaceful  shore. 

There  the  light  breezes  lie  at  rest, 

Soft  pillowed  on  the  glassy  deep ; 
Pale  cliffs  look  on  the  waters'  breast, 

And  watch  their  silent  sleep. 

There  the  wild  swan  with  plumed  and  glossy  wing 
Sits  lone  and  still  beside  the  bubbling  spring. 

And  far  within,  in  murmurs  heard, 

Comes,  with  the  wind's  low  whispers  there, 
The  music  of  the  mounting  bird, 
Skimming  the  clear  bright  air. 
The  sportive  brook,  with  free  and  silvery  tide, 
Comes  wildly  dancing  from  the  green  hill  side. 

The  sun  there  sheds  his  noontide  beam 

On  oak-crowned  hill  and  leafy  bowers  ; 
And  gaily  by  the  shaded  stream 
Spring  forth  the  forest  flowers. 
The  fountain  flings  aloft  its  showery  spray, 
With  rainbows  decked,  that  mock  the  hues  of  day. 


54  INDIAN   SUMMER — 1828. 

And  when  the  dewy  morning  breaks, 
A  thousand  tones  of  rapture  swell ; 
A  thrill  of  life  and  motion  wakes 

Through  hill,  and  plain,  and  dell. 
The  wild  bird  trills  his  song — and  from  the  wood 
The  red  deer  bounds  to  drink  beside  the  flood. 

There,  when  the  sun  sets  on  the  sea, 

And  gilds  the  forest's  waving  crown, 
Strains  of  immortal  harmony 

To  those  sweet  shades  come  down. 
Bright  and  mysterious  forms  that  green  shore  throng, 
And  pour  in  evening's  ear  their  charmed  song. 

E'en  on  this  cold  and  cheerless  shore, 

While  all  is  dark  and  quiet  near, 
The  huntsman,  when  his  toils  are  o'er, 

That  melody  may  hear. 
And  see,  faint  gleaming  o'er  the  waters'  foam, 
The  glories  of  that  isle,  his  future  home. 


INDIAN  SUMMER  — 1828. 


BY   C.   F.   HOFFMAN. 


LIGHT  as  love's  smiles  the  silvery  mist  at  morn 
Floats  in  loose  flakes  along  the  limpid  river  ; 

The  blue-bird's  notes  upon  the  soft  breeze  borne, 
As  high  in  air  she  carols,  faintly  quiver  ; 


GREECE — 1832.  55 

The  weeping  birch,  like  banners  idly  waving, 
Bends  to  the  stream,  its  spicy  branches  laving  ; 

Beaded  with  dew  the  witch-elm's  tassels  shiver  ; 
The  timid  rabbit  from  the  furze  is  peeping, 
And  from  the  springy  spray  the  squirrel's  gaily  leaping. 

I  love  thee,  Autumn,  for  thy  scenery  ere 
The  blasts  of  Winter  chase  the  varied  dyes 

That  gaily  deck  the  slow-declining  year  ; 
I  love  the  splendour  of  thy  sunset  skies, 

The  gorgeous  hues  that  tinge  each  failing  leaf, 

Lovely  as  beauty's  cheek,  as  woman's  love  too,  brief; 
I  love  the  note  of  each  wild  bird  that  flies, 

As  on  the  wind  she  pours  her  parting  lay, 
And  wings  her  loitering  flight  to  summer  climes  away. 

Oh,  Nature  !  still  I  fondly  turn  to  thee 

With  feelings  fresh  as  e'er  my  childhood's  were ; — 
Though  wild  and  passion-tost  my  youth  may  be, 

Toward  thee  I  still  the  same  devotion  bear  ; 
To  thee — to  thee — though  health  and  hope  no  more 
Life's  wasted  verdure  may  to  me  restore — 

I  still  can,  child-like,  come  as  when  in  prayer 
I  bowed  my  head  upon  a  mother's  knee, 
And  deemed  the  world,  like  her,  all  truth  and  purity. 


GREECE— 1832. 


BY   J.    G.  BROOKS. 


LAND  of  the  brave !  where  lie  inurned 
The  shrouded  forms  of  mortal  clay, 

In  whom  the  fire  of  valour  burned, 
And  blazed  upon  the  battle's  fray  : 


56  GREECE 1832. 

Land,  where  the  gallant  Spartan  few 

Bled  at  Thermopylae  of  yore, 
When  death  his  purple  garment  threw 
On  Helle's  consecrated  shore  ! 

Land  of  the  Muse  !  within  thy  bowers 

Her  soul  entrancing  echoes  rung, 
While  on  their  course  the  rapid  hours 

Paused  at  the  melody  she  sung — 
Till  every  grove  and  every  hill, 

And  every  stream  that  flowed  along, 
From  morn  to  night  repeated  still 

The  winning  harmony  of  song. 

Land  of  dead  heroes  !  living  slaves  ! 

Shall  glory  gild  thy  clirne  no  more  ? 
Her  banner  float  above  thy  waves 

Where  proudly  it  hath  swept  before  ? 
Hath  not  remembrance  then  a  charm 

To  break  the  fetters  and  the  chain, 
To  bid  thy  children  nerve  the  arm, 

And  strike  for  freedom  once  again  ? 

No  !  coward  souls  !  the  light  which  shone 

On  Leuctra's  war-empurpled  day, 
The  light  which  beamed  on  Marathon 

Hath  lost  its  splendour,  ceased  to  play ; 
And  thou  art  but  a  shadow  now, 

With  helmet  shattered — spear  in  rust — 
Thy  honour  but  a  dream — and  thou 

Despised — degraded  in  the  dust ! 

Where  sleeps  the  spirit,  that  of  old 

Dashed  down  to  earth  the  Persian  plume, 
When  the  loud  chant  of  triumph  told 
How  fatal  was  the  despot's  doom  ? — 


GREECE 1832.  57 

The  bold  three  hundred — where  are  they, 

Who  died  on  battle's  gory  breast  ? 
Tyrants  have  trampled  on  the  clay, 

Where  death  has  hushed  them  into  rest. 

Yet,  Ida,  yet  upon  thy  hill 

A  glory  shines  of  ages  fled ; 
And  fame  her  light  is  pouring  still, 

Not  on  the  living,  but  the  dead  ! 
But  'tis  the  dim  sepulchral  light, 

Which  sheds  a  faint  and  feeble  ray, 
As  moon-beams  on  the  brow  of  night, 

When  tempests  sweep  upon  their  way. 

Greece  !  yet  awake  thee  from  thy  trance, 

Behold  thy  banner  waves  afar  ; 
Behold  the  glittering  weapons  glance 

Along  the  gleaming  front  of  war  ! 
A  gallant  chief,  of  high  emprize, 

Is  urging  foremost  in  the  field, 
Who  calls  upon  thee  to  arise 

In  might — in  majesty  revealed. 

In  vain,  in  vain  the  hero  calls — 

In  vain  he  sounds  the  trumpet  loud ! 
His  banner  totters — see  !  it  falls 

In  ruin,  Freedom's  battle  shroud  : 
Thy  children  have  no  soul  to  dare 

Such  deeds  as  glorified  their  sires  ; 
Their  valour's  but  a  meteor's  glare, 

Which  gleams  a  moment,  and  expires. 

Lost  land  !  where  Genius  made  his  reign, 

And  reared  his  golden  arch  on  high  ; 
Where  Science  raised  her  sacred  fane, 

Its  summits  peering  to  the  sky  ; 

8 


58  IMPROMPTU, 

Upon  thy  clime  the  midnight  deep 
Of  ignorance  hath  brooded  long, 

And  in  the  tomb,  forgotten,  sleep 
The  sons  of  science  and  of  song. 

Thy  sun  hath  set — the  evening  storm 

Hath  passed  in  giant  fury  by, 
To  blast  the  beauty  of  thy  form, 

And  spread  its  pall  upon  the  sky  ! 
Gone  is  thy  glory's  diadem, 

And  freedom  never  more  shall  cease 
To  pour  her  mournful  requiem 

O'er  blighted,  lost,  degraded  Greece ! 


IMPROMPTU  TO   A  LADY  BLUSHING. 


BY   C.   F,  HOFFMAN. 


THE  lilies  faintly  to  the  roses  yield, 
As  on  thy  lovely  cheek  they  struggling  vie, 

(Who  would  not  strive  upon  so  sweet  a  field 
To  win  the  mastery  ?) 

And  thoughts  are  in  thy  speaking  eyes  revealed, 

Pure  as  the  fovint  the  prophet's  rod  unsealed. 

I  could  not  wish  that  in  thy  bosom  aught 

Should  e'er  one  moment's  transient  pain  awaken, 

Yet  can't  regret  that  thou — forgive  the  thought — 
As  flowers  when  shaken 

Will  yield  their  sweetest  fragrance  to  the  wind, 

Should,  ruffled  thus,  betray  thy  heavenly  mind. 


59 


A   ROMAN   CHARIOT   RACE. 

BY  J.   I.   BAILEY. 

HAST  thou  no  soul,  that  thou  canst  be  unmoved 
At  glorious  sports  like  these  ?   Even  now  I  see 
Come  forth  the  noble  charioteers,  arrayed. 
In  red;  white,  green,  and  azure,  like  the  sky, 
The  eye  of  beauty  dazzled  by  their  hue  ! 
And  now  with  eager  hopes  and  proud  desires 
Exulting,  lo  !  the  youthful,  daring  band 
Start  to  the  race,  and  fiercely  seize  the  reins  ! 
Onward  they  rush  ;  a  thousand  voices  hail 
The  alternate  victor  as  he  speeds  along ; 
Ten  thousand  eyes  pursue  the  chariot  flight. 
And  as  they  gaze,  as  many  thousand  souls 
Swell  in  their  bosoms  and  almost  leap  out. 
Then  comes  the  glorious  moment  when  the  goal 
Is  almost  reached — they  goad  the  foremost  steeds 
Lashing  with  all  their  might  upon  their  flanks  ; 
The  golden  chariot  glitters  in  the  course, 
And  swifter  than  the  wind  is  borne  along — 
And  now  the  victor,  like  a  flash  of  light, 
Bursts  on  the  view,  and  hails  the  loud  acclaim, 
While  lengthening  shouts  of  triumph  rend  the  air  ! 

Waldimar,  a  Tragedy.    Act  //.,  Scene  L 


LINES  FOR  MUSIC, 

BY  O.   P.   MORRIS. 

O  WOULD  that  she  were  here, 
These  hills  and  dales  among, 

Where  vocal  groves  are  gayly  mocked 
By  echo's  airy  tongue, — 


60  LINES    FOR    MUSIC. 

Where  jocund  Nature  smiles 

In  all  her  gay  attire, 
Amid  deep-tangled  wiles 

Of  hawthorn  and  sweet-brier. 
O  would  that  she  were  here, 
;  That  fair  and  gentle  thing, 

Whose  words  are  musical  as  strains 

Breathed  by  the  wind-harp's  string. 

O  would  that  she  were  here, 

Where  the  free  waters  leap, 
Shouting  in  their  joyousness, 

Adown  the  rocky  steep, — • 
Where  rosy  Zephyr  lingers 

All  the  livelong  day, 
With  health  upon  his  pinions, 

And  gladness  in  his  way. 
O  would  that  she  were  here, 

Sure  Eden's  garden-plot 
Did  not  embrace  more  varied  charms 

Than  this  romantic  spot. 

O  would  that  she  were  here, 

Where  frolic  by  the  hours, 
Rife  with  the  song  of  bee  and  bird, 

The  perfume  of  the  flowers, — 
Where  beams  of  peace  and  love, 

And  radiant  beauty's  glow, 
Are  pictured  in  the  sky  above, 

And  in  the  lake  below. 
O  would  that  she  were  here — 

The  nymphs  of  this  bright  scene, 
With  song,  and  dance,  and  revelry, 

Would  crown  BIANCA  queen. 


Gl 


WHITE    LAKE.* 


BY   A.   E.   STREET. 


PURE  as  their  parent  springs  !  how  bright 

The  silvery  waters  stretch  away, 
Reposing  in  the  pleasant  light 
Of  June's  most  lovely  day. 

Carving  around  the  eastern  side, 

Rich  meadows  slope  their  banks,  to  meet 

With  fringe  of  grass  and  fern,  the  tide 
Which  sparkles  at  their  feet. 

Here  busy  life  attests  that  toil, 

With  its  quick  talisman,  has  made 

Fields  green  and  waving,  from  a  soil 
Of  rude  and  savage  shade. 

While  opposite  the  forests  lie 

In  giant  shadow,  black  and  deep. 

Filling  with  leaves  the  circling  sky, 
And  frowning  in  their  sleep. 

Amid  this  scene  of  light  and  gloom, 
Nature  with  art  links  hand  in  hand. 

Thick  woods  beside  soft  rural  bloom, 
As  by  a  seer's  command. 


*  Or  "  Lake  Kau-na-ong-ga,"  meaning  literally  "  two  icings."  White  Lake, 
which  is  the  unmeaning  modern  epithet  of  this  beautiful  sheet  of  water,  is  si 
tuated  in  the  town  of  Bethel,  Sullivan  County,  N.  Y.  It  is  in  the  form  of  a  pair 
of  huge  wings  expanded. 


62  WHITE    LAKE. 

Here  waves  the  grain,  here  curls  the  smoke, 
The  orchard  bends  ;  there,  wilds,  as  dark 

As  when  the  hermit  waters  woke 
Beneath  the  Indian's  bark. 

Oft  will  the  panther's  sharp,  shrill  shriek 
With  the  herd's  quiet  lowings  swell, 

The  wolf's  fierce  howl  terrific  break 
Upon  the  sheepfold's  bell. 

The  ploughman  sees  the  wind-winged  deer 
Dart  from  his  covert  to  the  wave, 

And  fearless  in  its  mirror  clear 
His  branching  antlers  lave. 

Here,  the  green  headlands  seem  to  meet 
So  near,  a  fairy  bridge  might  cross  ; 

There,  spreads  the  broad  and  limpid  sheet 
In  smooth,  unruffled  gloss. 

Arched  by  the  thicket's  screening  leaves, 
A  lilied  harbour  lurks  below. 

Where  on  the  sand  each  ripple  weaves 
Its  melting  wreath  of  snow. 

Hark!  like  an  organ's  tone,  the  woods 
To  the  light  wind  in  murmurs  wake, 

The  voice  of  the  vast  solitudes 
Is  speaking  to  the  lake. 

The  fanning  air-breath  sweeps  across 
On  its  broad  path  of  sparkles  now. 

Bends  down  the  violet  to  the  moss, 
Then  melts  upon  my  brow. 


63 


SONG   OF   SPRING-TIME, 

BY    C.   F.   HOFFMAN. 

WHERE  dost  thou  loiter,  Spring, 

While  it  behoveth 
Thee  to  cease  wandering 

Where'er  thou  roveth, 
And  to  my  lady  bring 

The  flowers  she  loveth. 

Come  with  thy  melting  skies 
Like  her  cheek  blushing, 

Come  with  thy  dewy  eyes 
Where  founts  are  gushing ; 

Come  where  the  wild  bee  hies 
When  dawn  is  flushing. 

Lead  her  where  by  the  brook 
The  first  blossom  keepeth, 

Where,  in  the  sheltered  nook, 
The  callow  bud  sleepeth  ; 

Or  with  a  timid  look 

Through  its  leaves  peepeth. 

Lead  her  where  on  the  spray, 

Blithely  carolling, 
First  birds  their  roundelay 

For  my  lady  sing — 
But  keep,  where'er  she  stray 

True-love  blossoming. 


64 


THE    SHIPWRECK    OF   CAMOENS. 

BY  EMMA   C.   EMBURY. 

CLOUDS  gathered  o'er  the  dark  blue  sky, 

The  sun  waxed  dim  and  pale, 
And  the  music  of  the  waves  was  changed 

To  the  plaintive  voice  of  wail ; 
And  fearfully  the  lightning  flashed 

Around  the  ship's  tall  mast, 
While  mournfully  through  the  creaking  shrouds 

Came  the  sighing  of  the  blast. 

With  pallid  cheek  the  seamen  shrank 

Before  the  deepening  gloom  ; 
For  they  gazed  on  the  black  and  boiling  sea 

As  'twere  a  yawning  tomb  ; 
But  on  the  vessel's  deck  stood  one 

With  proud  and  changeless  brow  ; 
Nor  pain,  nor  terror  was  in  the  look 

He  turned  to  the  gulf  below. 

And  calmly  to  his  arm  he  bound 

His  casket  and  his  sword ; 
Unheeding,  though  with  fiercer  strength 

The  threatening  tempest  roared  ; 
Then  stretched  his  sinewy  arms  and  cried : 

"  For  me  there  yet  is  hope, 
The  limbs  that  have  spurned  a  tyrant's  chain 

With  the  stormy  wave  may  cope. 


THE    SHIPWRECK   OP   CAMOENS.  65 

"  Now  let  the  strife  of  nature  rage, 

Proudly  I  yet  can  claim, 
Where'er  the  waters  may  bear  me  on, 

My  freedom  and  my  fame." 
The  dreaded  moment  came  too  soon, 

The  sea  swept  madly  on. 
Till  the  wall  of  waters  closed  around, 

And  the  noble  ship  was  gone. 

Then  rose  one  wild,  half-stifled  cry  ; 

The  swimmer's  bubbling  breath 
Was  all  unheard,  while  the  raging  tide 

Wrought  well  the  task  of  death  ; 
But  'mid  the  billows  still  was  seen 

The  stranger's  struggling  form  ; 
And  the  meteor  flash  of  his  sword  might  seem 

Like  a  beacon  'mid  the  storm. 

For  still,  while  with  his  strong  right  arm 

He  buffeted  the  wave, 
The  other  upheld  that  treasured  prize 

He  would  give  life  to  save. 
Was  then  the  love  of  pelf  so  strong 

That  e'en  in  death's  dark  hour, 
The  base-born  passion  could  awake 

With  such  resistless  power  ? 

No  !  all  earth's  gold  were  dross  to  him, 

Compared  with  what  lay  hid, 
Through  lonely  years  of  changeless  woe, 

Beneath  that  casket's  lid  ; 
For  there  was  all  the  mind's  rich  wealth, 

And  many  a  precious  gem 
That,  in  after  years,  he  hoped  might  form 

A  poet's  diadem. 

9 


66  LOVE    AND   FAITH  ]    A    BALLAD. 

Nobly  he  struggled  till,  o'erspent, 

His  nerveless  limbs  no  more 
Could  bear  him  on  through  the  waves  that  rose 

o 

Like  barriers  to  the  shore  ; 
Yet  still  he  held  his  long  prized  wealth, 

He  saw  the  wished-for  land — 
A  moment  more,  and  he  was  thrown 

Upon  the  rocky  strand. 

Alas  !  far  better  to  have  died 

Where  the  mighty  billows  roll, 
Than  lived  till  coldness  and  neglect 

Bowed  down  his  haughty  soul : 
Such  was  his  dreary  lot,  at  once 

His  country's  pride  and  shame  ; 
For  on  Camoen's  humble  grave  alone 

Was  placed  his  wreath  of  fame. 


LOVE  AND  FAITH;  A  BALLAD. 


BY    C.   F.    HOFFMAN. 


'TWAS  on  one  morn,  in  spring-time  weather, 

A  rosy,  warm,  inviting  hour, 
That  Love  and  Faith  went  out  together, 

And  took  the  path  to  Beauty's  bower. 
Love  laughed  and  frolicked  all  the  way, 

While  sober  Faith,  as  on  they  rambled, 
Allowed  the  thoughtless  boy  to  play, 

But  watched  him,  wheresoe'er  he  gamboled. 


LOVE    AND   FAITH  J    A    BALLAD.  67 

So  warm  a  welcome,  Beauty  smiled 

Upon  the  guests  whom  chance  had  sent  her, 
That  Love  and  Faith  were  both  beguiled 

The  grotto  of  the  nymph  to  enter ; 
And  when  the  curtains  of  the  skies 

The  drowsy  hand  of  Night  was  closing, 
Love  nestled  him  in  Beauty's  eyes, 

While  Faith  was  on  her  heart  reposing. 

Love  thought  he  never  saw  a  pair 

So  softly  radiant  in  their  beaming  ; 
Faith  deemed  that  he  could  meet  no  where 

So  sweet  and  safe  a  place  to  dream  in ; 
And  there,  for  life  in  bright  content, 

Enchained,  they  must  have  still  been  lying, 
For  Love  his  wings  to  Faith  had  lent, 

And  Faith  he  never  dream'd  of  flying. 

But  Beauty,  though  she  liked  the  child, 

With  all  his  winning  ways  about  him, 
Upon  his  mentor  never  smiled, 

And  thought  that  Love  might  do  without  him ; 
Poor  Faith  abused,  soon  sighing  fled, 

And  now  one  knows  not  where  to  find  him  ; 
While  mourning  Love  quick  followed 

Upon  the  wings  he  left  behind  him. 

'Tis  said,  that  in  his  wandering 

Love  still  around  that  spot  will  hover, 
Like  bird  that  on  bewildered  wing 

Her  parted  mate  pines  to  discover  ; 
And  true  it  is  that  Beauty's  door 

Is  often  by  the  idler  haunted ; 
But,  since  Faith  fled,  Love  owns  no  more 

The  spell  that  held  his  wings  enchanted. 


68 


THE  LAST  SONG. 

BY  J.  G.  BROOKS. 

STRIKE  the  wild  harp  yet  once  again  ! 

Again  its  lonely  numbers  pour  ; 
Then  let  the  melancholy  strain 

Be  hushed  in  death  for  evermore. 
For  evermore,  for  evermore, 

Creative  fancy,  be  thou  still ; 
And  let  oblivious  Lethe  pour 

Upon  my  lyre  its  waters  chill. 

Strike  the  wild  harp  yet  once  again  ! 

Then  be  its  fitful  chords  unstrung, 
Silent  as  is  the  grave's  domain, 

And  mute  as  the  death-mouldered  tongue, 
Let  not  a  thought  of  memory  dwell 

One  moment  on  its  former  song  ; 
Forgotten,  too,  be  this  farewell, 

Which  plays  its  pensive  strings  along  ! 

Strike  the  wild  harp  yet  once  again  ! 

The  saddest  and  the  latest  lay ; 
Then  break  at  once  its  strings  in  twain, 

And  they  shall  sound  no  more  for  aye : 
And  hang  it  on  the  cypress  tree, 

The  hours  of  youth  and  song  have  passed, 
Have  gone,  with  all  their  witchery  ; 

Lost  lyre !  these  numbers  are  thy  last. 


TO    MY    WIFE. 

BY  L1NDLEY  MURRAY. 

WHEN  on  thy  bosom  I  recline, 
Enraptur'd  still  to  call  thee  mine, 

To  call  thee  mine  for  life, 
I  glory  in  the  sacred  ties. 
Which  modern  wits  and  fools  despise, 

Of  Husband  and  of  Wife. 

One  mutual  flame  inspires  our  bliss  ; 
The  tender  look,  the  melting  kiss, 

Even  years  have  not  destroyed  ; 
Some  sweet  sensation,  ever  new, 
Springs  up  and  proves  the  maxim  true, 

That  love  can  ne'er  be  cloy'd. 

Have  I  a  wish  ? — 'tis  all  for  thee, 
Hast  thou  a  wish  ? — 'tis  all  for  me. 

So  soft  our  moments  move, 
That  angels  look  with  ardent  gaze, 
Well  pleas'd  to  see  our  happy  days, 

And  bid  us  live— and  love. 

If  cares  arise — and  cares  will  come — 
Thy  bosom  is  my  softest  home, 

I'll  lull  me  there  to  rest ; 
And  is  there  aught  disturbs  my  fair  ? 
I'll  bid  her  sigh  out  every  care, 

And  lose  it  in  my  breast. 


70  LAMENT. 

Have  I  a  wish  ? — 'tis  all  her  own  ; 
All  hers  and  mine  are  roll'd  in  one — 

Our  hearts  are  so  entwined, 
That,  like  the  ivy  round  the  tree, 
Bound  up  in  closest  amity, 

'Tis  death  to  be  disjoined. 


LAMENT. 

BY     MARY     E  .     BROOKS. 

OH,  weep  not  for  the  dead ! 
Rather,  oh  rather  give  the  tear 
To  those  that  darkly  linger  here, 

When  all  besides  are  fled  ; 
Weep  for  the  spirit  withering 
In  its  cold  cheerless  sorrowing, 
Weep  for  the  young  and  lovely  one 
That  ruin  darkly  revels  on ; 

But  never  be  a  tear-drop  shed 

For  them,  the  pure  enfranchised  dead. 

Oh,  weep  not  for  the  dead ! 
No  more  for  them  the  blighting  chill, 
The  thousand  shades  of  earthly  ill, 

The  thousand  thorns  we  tread ; 
Weep  for  the  life-charm  early  flown, 
The  spirit  broken,  bleeding,  lone  ; 
Weep  for  the  death  pangs  of  the  heart, 
Ere  being  from  the  bosom  part ; 

But  never  be  a  tear-drop  given 

To  those  that  rest  in  yon  blue  heaven. 


71 


"AFFECTION  WINS  AFFECTION." 

BY   EMMA   C.   EMBURY. 

MINE  own  beloved,  believest  thou  ought  of  this  ? 

Oh  !  then  no  more 
My  heart,  o'er  early  faded  dreams  of  bliss 

Its  wail  shall  pour. 

Give  me  this  hope,  though  only  from  afar 

It  sheds  its  light, 
And,  like  yon  dewy  melancholy  star, 

With  tears  is  bright — 

Let  me  but  hope  a  heart  with  fondness  fraught. 

That  could  not  sin 
Against  its  worshipped  idol,  e'en  in  thought, 

Thy  love  may  win : 

Let  me  but  hope  the  changeless  love  of  years, 

The  tender  care 
That  fain  would  die  to  save  thine  eye  from  tears, 

Thy  heart  may  share. 

Or  let  me  hope  at  least  that,  when  no  more 

My  voice  shall  meet 
The  ear  that  listens  only  to  think  o'er 

Tones  far  more  sweet ; 

When  the  kind  shelter  of  the  grave  shall  hide 

This  faded  brow, 
This  form  once  gazed  upon  with  pride, 

With  coldness  now ; 


72 


FEATS    OP    DEATH. 


When  never  more  my  weary  steps  of  pain 

Around  thee  move, 
When  loosed  for  ever  is  life's  heavy  chain, 

Love  will  win  love. 


FEATS    OF   DEATH. 

BY    LUCRETIA   M.    DAVIDSON. 

Ob  :  1825,  at.  17. 

I  HAVE  passed  o'er  the  earth  in  the  darkness  of  night, 
I  have  walked  the  wild  winds  in  the  morning's  broad  light ; 
I  have  paused  o'er  the  bower  where  the  infant  lay  sleeping, 
And  I've  left  the  fond  mother  in  sorrow  and  weeping. 

My  pinion  was  spread,  and  the  cold  dew  of  night, 
Which  withers  and  moulders  the  flower  in  its  light, 
Fell  silently  o'er  the  warm  cheek  in  its  glow, 
And  I  left  it  there  blighted,  and  wasted,  and  low  ; 
I  culled  the  fair  bud  as  it  danced  in  its  mirth, 
And  I  left  it  to  moulder  and  fade  on  the  earth. 

I  passed  o'er  the  valley,  the  glad  sounds  of  joy 
Rose  soft  through  the  mist,  and  ascended  on  high ; 
The  fairest  were  there,  and  I  paused  in  my  flight, 
And  the  deep  cry  of  wailing  broke  wildly  that  night. 

I  stay  not  to  gather  the  lone  one  to  earth, 
I  spare  not  the  young  in  their  gay  dance  of  mirth, 
But  I  sweep  them  all  on  to  their  home  in  the  grave, 
I  stop  not  to  pity — I  stay  not  to  save. 


73 


I  paused  in  my  pathway,  for  beauty  was  there  ; 
It  was  beauty  too  death-like,  too  cold,  and  too  fair  ! 
The  deep  purple  fountain  seemed  melting  away. 
And  the  faint  pulse  of  life  scarce  remembered  to  play  ; 
She  had  thought  on  the  tomb,  she  was  waiting  for  me, 
I  gazed,  I  passed  on,  and  her  spirit  was  free. 

The  clear  stream  rolled  gladly,  and  bounded  along. 

With  ripple,  and  murmur,  and  sparkle,  and  song ; 

The  minstrel  was  tuning  his  wild  harp  to  love, 

And  sweet,  and  half  sad  were  the  numbers  he  wove. 

I  passed,  and  the  harp  of  the  bard  was  unstrung  ; 

O'er  the  stream  which  rolled  deeply,  'twas  recklessly  hung  ; 

The  minstrel  was  not !  and  I  passed  on  alone, 

O'er  the  newly-raised  turf  and  the  rudely-carved  stone. 


THE    BRIDE'S    FAREWELL. 


BY    MARY   E.    BROOKS. 


FAREWELL  to  thee, 

To  thee,  the  young  home  of  my  heart,  farewell  ! 
How  often  will  thy  form  in  memory 

Renew  the  spell ; 

Each  burning  tone, 

Far  sweeter  than  the  wild  bird's  melting  note  ; 
Across  my  spirit  like  a  dream  by-gone, 

Their  voices  float. 
10 


74 


When  rose  the  song. 

The  life  gush  of  the  bosom,  fresh  and  free, 
There  breathed  no  sorrow  as  it  swept  along 

Thy  halls  of  glee  ; 

Oh,  when  the  gay, 

The  merry  hearted  blend  the  tide  again, 
Then  fling  to  her,  the  loved  one  far  away, 

One  kindly  strain. 

The  skies  are  bright 

That  canopy  thy  bowers,  my  soul's  young  rest ; 
And,  like  thy  fairy  visions,  robed  in  light, 

The  loveliest : 

The  bird  among 

Thy  deep  perfumes  pours  its  rich  melody ; 
Oh,  in  the  music  of  that  matin  song 

Remember  me ! 

Another  now, 

Mother,  above  thy  silvery  locks  must  bend ; 
And  when  the  death-shade  gathers  on  thy  brow, 

Who  then  will  tend 

Thy  fading  light  ? 

Oh,  in  its  gleam  all  feebly,  tremblingly, 
The  last  gush  of  thy  spirit  in  its  flight, 

Remember  me ! 

Sister,  one  sigh 

Upon  the  midnight's  balmy  breath  did  float ; 
One  love-lit  smile  beneath  the  summer  sky, 

One  echo  note : 

Oh,  never  yet, 

Through  love,  life,  music,  feeling,  fragrancy, 
Can  I  the  mingling  of  those  hours  forget ; 

Remember  me ! 


REFLECTIONS.  75 

The  chained  spell 

Is  strong,  my  own  fair  home,  that  bids  us  sever  ; 
And  bound  in  loveliness  to  break,  no,  never  ! 

Then  fare  thee  well : 

And  perished  here, 

As  from  the  rosy  leaf  the  dew  that  fell, 
I  dash  from  love's  young  wreath  the  passing  tear ; 

My  own  bright  home,  farewell ! 


REFLECTIONS. 

BY   LUCRETIA   M.    DAVIDSON. 

[  Written  in  her  Fifteenth  year,  on  seeing  an  ancient  picture  of  the  Virgin  Mary.] 

ROLL  back,  thou  tide  of  time,  and  tell 

Of  book,  of  rosary,  and  bell ; 

Of  cloistered  nun,  with  brow  of  gloom, 

Immured  within  her  living  tomb  ; 

Of  monks,  of  saints,  and  vesper-song, 

Borne  gently  by  the  breeze  along  ; 

Of  deep-toned  organ's  pealing  swell ; 

Of  ave  maria,  and  funeral  knell ; 

Of  midnight  taper,  dim  and  small, 

Just  glimmering  through  the  high-arched  hall ; 

Of  gloomy  cell,  of  penance  lone, 

Which  can  for  darkest  deeds  atone : 

Roll  back,  and  lift  the  veil  of  night, 

For  I  would  view  the  anchorite. 


76  REFLECTIONS. 

Yes,  there  he  sits,  so  sad,  so  pale, 
Shuddering  at  Superstition's  tale ; 
Crossing  his  breast  with  meagre  hand, 
While  saints  and  priests,  a  motley  band, 
Arrayed  before  him,  urge  their  claim 
To  heal  in  the  Redemer's  name  ; 
To  mount  the  saintly  ladder,  (made 
By  every  monk,  of  every  grade, 
From  portly  abbot,  fat  and  fair, 
To  yon  lean  starveling,  shivering  there,) 
And  mounting  thus,  to  usher  in 
The  soul,  thus  ransomed  from  its  sin. 
And  tell  me,  hapless  bigot !  why, 
For  what,  for  whom  did  Jesus  die, 
If  pyramids  of  saints  must  rise 
To  form  a  passage  to  the  skies  ? 
And  think  you  man  can  wipe  away 
With  fast  and  penance,  day  by  day, 
One  single  sin,  too  dark  to  fade 
Before  a  bleeding  Saviour's  shade  ? 
O  ye  of  little  faith,  beware  ! 
For  neither  shrift,  nor  saint,  nor  prayer, 
Would  ought  avail  ye  without  Him, 
Beside  whom  saints  themselves  grow  dim. 
Roll  back,  thou  tide  of  time,  and  raise 
The  faded  forms  of  other  days  ! 
Yon  time-worn  picture,  darkly  grand, 
The  work  of  some  forgotten  hand, 
Will  teach  thee  half  thy  mazy  way, 
While  Fancy's  watch-fires  dimly  play. 
Roll  back,  thou  tide  of  time,  and  tell 
Of  secret  charm,  of  holy  spell, 
Of  Superstition's  midnight  rite, 
Of  wild  Devotion's  seraph  flight ; 


LINES.  77 


Of  Melancholy's  tearful  eye, 
Of  the  sad  votaress'  frequent  sigh, 
That  trembling  from  her  bosom  rose, 
Divided  'twixt  her  Saviour's  woes 
And  some  warm  image  lingering  there, 
Which,  half-repulsed  by  midnight  prayer, 
Still,  like  an  outcast  child,  will  creep 
Where  sweetly  it  was  wont  to  sleep, 
And  mingle  its  unhallowed  sigh 
With  cloister-prayer  and  rosary  ; 
Then  tell  the  pale,  deluded  one 
Her  vows  are  breathed  to  God  alone  ; 
Those  vows,  which  tremulously  rise, 
Love's  last,  love's  sweetest  sacrifice. 


LINES. 

BY    EMMA    C.    EMBURY. 

WHEN  in  the  shadow  of  the  tomb 

This  heart  shall  rest, 
Oh  !  lay  me  where  spring  flowers  bloom 

On  earth's  bright  breast. 

Oh  !  ne'er  in  vaulted  chambers  lay 

My  lifeless  form ; 
Seek  not  of  such  mean,  worthless  prey 

To  cheat  the  worm. 


78  THE    GUARDIAN    ANGEL. 

In  this  sweet  city  of  the  dead 

I  fain  would  sleep, 
Where  flowers  may  deck  my  narrow  bed, 

And  night  dews  weep. 

But  raise  not  the  sepulchral  stone 

To  mark  the  spot ; 
Enough,  if  by  thy  heart  alone 

'Tis  ne'er  forgot. 


THE    GUARDIAN    ANGEL. 

BY   LUCRETIA  M.    DAVIDSON. 

I'M  thy  guardian  angel,  sweet  maid  !  and  I  rest 
In  mine  own  chosen  temple,  thy  innocent  breast ; 
At  midnight  I  steal  from  my  sacred  retreat, 
When  the  chords  of  thy  heart  in  soft  unison  beat. 

When  thy  bright  eye  is  closed,  when  thy  dark  tresses  flow 
In  beautiful  wreaths  o'er  thy  pillow  of  snow ; 

0  then  I  watch  o'er  thee,  all  pure  as  thou  art, 
And  listen  to  music  which  steals  from  thy  heart. 

Thy  smile  is  the  sunshine  which  gladdens  my  soul, 
My  tempest  the  clouds,  which  around  thee  may  roll ; 

1  feast  my  light  form  on  thy  rapture-breathed  sighs, 
And  drink  at  the  fount  of  those  beautiful  eyes. 


WHAT    IS    SOLITUDE?  79 

The  thoughts  of  thy  heart  are  recorded  by  me  ; 

There  are  some  which,  half-breathed,  half-acknowledged  by 

thee, 

Steal  sweetly  and  silently  o'er  thy  pure  breast, 
Just  ruffling  its  calmness,  then  murm'ring  to  rest. 

Like  a  breeze  o'er  the  lake,  when  it  breathlessly  lies, 
With  its  own  mimic  mountains,  and  star-spangled  skies  ; 
I  stretch  my  light  pinions  around  thee  when  sleeping, 
To  guard  thee  from  spirits  of  sorrow  and  weeping. 

I  breathe  o'er  thy  slumbers  sweet  dreams  of  delight, 
Till  you  wake  but  to  sigh  for  the  visions  of  night ; 
Then  remember,  wherever  your  pathway  may  lie, 
Be  it  clouded  with  sorrow,  or  brilliant  with  joy  ; 

My  spirit  shall  watch  thee,  wherever  thou  art, 

My  incense  shall  rise  from  the  throne  of  thy  heart. 

Farewell !  for  the  shadows  of  evening  are  fled, 

And  the  young  rays  of  morning  are  wreathed  round  my  head. 


WHAT   IS   SOLITUDE? 


BY   C.   F.    HOFFMAN. 


NOT  in  the  shadowy  wood, 
Not  in  the  crag-hung  glen, 

Not  where  the  sleeping  echoes  brood 
In  caves  untrod  by  men  ; 


80  WHAT    IS    SOLITUDE  ? 

Not  by  the  sea-swept  shore 

Where  loitering  surges  break, 
Not  on  the  mountain  hoar, 

Not  by  the  breezeless  lake, 
Not  in  the  desert  plain 

Where  man  hath  never  stood, 
Whether  on  isle  or  main — 

Not  there  is  Solitude  ! 

There  are  birds  in  the  woodland  bowers, 

Voices  in  lonely  dells, 
And  streams  that  talk  to  the  listening  hours 

In  earth's  most  secret  cells. 
There  is  life  on  the  foam-flecked  sand 

By  ocean's  curling  lip, 
And  life  on  the  still  lake's  strand 

'Mid  flowers  that  o'er  it  dip ; 
There  is  life  in  the  tossing  pines 

That  plume  the  mountain  crest, 
And  life  in  the  courser's  mane  that  shines 

As  he  scours  the  desert's  breast. 

But  go  to  the  crowded  mart, 

'Mid  the  sordid  haunts  of  men, 
Go  there  and  ask  thy  heart, 

What  answer  makes  it  then  ? 
Go  where  the  wine-cup's  gleaming, 

In  hall  or  festal  grot ; 
Where  love-lit  eyes  are  beaming, 

But  Love  himself  is  not ! — 
Go — if  thou  wouldst  be  lonely — 

Where  the  phantom  Pleasure's  wooed, 
And  own  that  there — there  only — 

'Mid  crowds  is  Solitude. 


81 


THE    BRAVE. 

BY   J.   G.   BROOKS. 

WHERE  have  the  valiant  sunk  to  rest, 
When  their  sands  of  life  were  numbered  ? 

On  the  downy  couch  ?  on  the  gentle  breast 
Where  their  youthful  visions  slumbered  ? 

When  the  mighty  passed  the  gate  of  death, 

Did  love  stand  by  bewailing  ? 
No  !  but  upon  war's  fiery  breath 

Their  blood-dyed  flag  was  sailing  ! 

Not  on  the  silent  feverish  bed, 

With  weeping  friends  around  them, 

Were  the  parting  prayers  of  the  valiant  said, 
When  death's  dark  angel  found  them. 

But  in  the  stern  and  stormy  strife, 

In  the  flush  of  lofty  feeling, 
They  yielded  to  honour  the  boon  of  life, 

Where  battle's  bolts  were  pealing  ; 

When  the  hot  war-steed,  with  crimsoned  mane 
Trampled  on  breasts  all  stained  and  gory, 

Dashed  his  red  hoof  on  the  reeking  plain, 
And  shared  in  the  rider's  glory. 

Or  seek  the  brave  in  their  ocean  grave, 
'Neath  the  dark  and  restless  water  ; 

Seek  them  beneath  the  whelming  wave, 
So  oft  deep  dyed  with  slaughter. 
11 


82 


MORNING. 


There  sleep  the  gallant  and  the  proud, 
The  eagle-eyed  and  the  lion-hearted ; 

For  whom  the  trump  of  fame  rang  loud, 
When  the  body  and  soul  were  parted. 

Or  seek  them  on  fields  where  the  grass  grows  deep, 
Where  the  vulture  and  the  raven  hover ; 

There  the  sons  of  battle  in  quiet  sleep  : 

And  widowed  love  goes  there  to  weep, 
That  their  bright  career  is  over. 


MORNING. 

BY    LUCRETIA   M.    DAVIDSON, 

I  COME  in  the  breath  of  the  wakened  breeze, 

I  kiss  the  flowers,  and  I  bend  the  trees ; 

And  I  shake  the  dew,  which  hath  fallen  by  night, 

From  its  throne,  on  the  lily's  pure  bosom  of  white. 

Awake  thee,  when  bright  from  my  couch  in  the  sky, 

I  beam  o'er  the  mountains,  and  come  from  on  high  j 

When  my  gay  purple  banners  are  waving  afar  ; 

When  my  herald,  gray  dawn,  hath  extinguished  each  star  ; 

When  I  smile  on  the  woodlands,  and  bend  o'er  the  lake, 

Then  awake  thee,  O  maiden,  I  bid  thee  awake ! 

Thou  may'st  slumber  when  all  the  wide  arches  of  Heaven 

Glitter  bright  with  the  beautiful  fires  of  even  ; 

When  the  moon  walks  in  glory,  and  looks  from  on  high, 

O'er  the  clouds  floating  far  through  the  clear  azure  sky, 


LAKE    GEORGE.  83 

Drifting1  on  like  the  beautiful  vessels  of  Heaven, 

To  their  far  away  harbour,  all  silently  driven, 

Bearing  on,  in  their  bosoms,  the  children  of  light, 

Who  have  fled  from  this  dark  world  of  sorrow  and  night ; 

When  the  lake  lies  in  calmness  and  darkness,  save  where 

The  bright  ripple  curls,  'neath  the  smile  of  a  star  ; 

When  all  is  in  silence  and  solitude  here, 

Then  sleep,  maiden,  sleep  !  without  sorrow  or  fear  ! 

But  when  I  steal  silently  over  the  lake, 

Awake  thee  then,  maiden,  awake  !     Oh,  awake  ! 


LAKE    GEORGE. 

BY   MRS.   E.   F.   ELLET. 

NOT  in  the  bannered  castle 
Beside  the  gilded  throne, 
On  fields  where  knightly  ranks  have  strode, 

In  feudal  halls — alone 
The  Spirit  of  the  stately  mien, 

Whose  presence  flings  a  spell, 
Fadeless  on  all  around  her, 

In  empire  loves  to  dwell. 

Gray  piles  and  moss-grown  cloisters, 

Call  up  the  shadows  vast 
That  linger  in  their  dim  domain, 

Dreams  of  the  visioned  past ! 
As  sweep  the  gorgeous  pageants  by 

We  watch  the  pictured  train, 
And  sigh  that  aught  so  glorious 

Should  be  so  brief  and  vain. 


84  LAKE    GEORGE. 

But  here  a  spell  yet  deeper 

Breathes  from  the  woods  and  sky, 
Proudlier  these  rocks  and  waters  speak 

Of  hoar  antiquity ; 
Here  Nature  built  her  ancient  realm 

While  yet  the  world  was  young, 
Her  monuments  of  grandeur 

Unshaken  stand,  and  strong. 

Here  shines  the  sun  of  Freedom 

For  ever  o'er  the  deep, 
Where  Freedom's  heroes  by  the  shore 

In  peaceful  glory  sleep  ; 
And  deeds  of  high  and  proud  emprize 

In  every  breeze  are  told, 
The  everlasting  tribute 

To  hearts  that  now  are  cold. 

Farewell,  then,  scenes  so  lovely, 

If  sunset  gild  your  rest, 
Or  the  pale  starlight  gleam  upon 

The  water's  silvery  breast — 
Or  morning  on  these  glad,  green  isles 

In  trembling  splendour  glows — 
A  holier  spell  than  beauty 

Hallows  your  pure  repose  ! 


85 


LINES    WRITTEN  IN   AN   ALBUM. 


BY   W.   H.   L.   BOGART. 


LIKE  the  lone  emigrant  who  seeks  a  home 
In  the  wild  regions  of  the  far-off  west, 

And  where,  as  yet,  no  foot  of  man  hath  come, 
Rears  a  rude  dwelling  for  his  future  rest. 

Like  him  I  have  sought  out  a  solitude 
Where  all  around  me  is  unsullied  yet, 

And  reared  a  tenement  of  words  as  rude 
As  the  first  hut  on  Indian  prairies  set. 

O'er  his  poor  house  ere  thrice  the  seasons  tread 
Their  march  of  storm  and  sunshine  o'er  the  land, 

Some  lofty  pile  will  rear  its  haughty  head, 

And  sway  the  soil  with  high  and  proud  command. 

And  round  my  verse  the  better,  brighter  thought 
Of  beauty  and  of  genius  will  be  placed — 

Those  gem-like  words,  with  light  and  music  fraught, 
By  manly  or  by  fairy  fingers  traced. 

Our  fate's  the  same — the  gentle  and  the  proud 
Will  speed  their  voyage  to  oblivion's  sea, 

And  I  shall  soon  be  lost  amid  the  crowd 
That  seek  a  place  within  thy  memory. 


86 


THE    FADED    ONE. 

BY   WILLIS   G.   CLARK. 

GONE  to  the  slumber  which  may  know  no  waking 

Till  the  loud  requiem  of  the  world  shall  swell ; 
Gone  !  where  no  sound  thy  still  repose  is  breaking, 

In  a  lone  mansion  through  long  years  to  dwell ; 
Where  the  sweet  gales  that  herald  bud  and  blossom 

Pour  not  their  music  nor  their  fragrant  breath : 
A  seal  is  set  upon  thy  budding  bosom, 

A  bond  of  loneliness — a  spell  of  death  ! 

Yet  'twas  but  yesterday  that  all  before  thee 

Shone  in  the  freshness  of  life's  morning  hours  ; 
Joy's  radiant  smile  was  playing  briefly  o'er  thee, 

And  thy  light  feet  impressed  but  vernal  flowers. 
The  restless  spirit  charmed  thy  sweet  existence, 

Making  all  beauteous  in  youth's  pleasant  maze, 
While  gladsome  hope  illumed  the  onward  distance, 

And  lit  with  sunbeams  thy  expectant  days. 

How  have  the  garlands  of  thy  childhood  withered, 

And  hope's  false  anthem  died  upon  the  air  ! 
Death's  cloudy  tempests  o'er  thy  way  have  gathered, 

And  his  stern  bolts  have  burst  in  fury  there. 
On  thy  pale  forehead  sleeps  the  shade  of  even, 

Youth's  braided  wreath  lies  stained  in  sprinkled  dust, 
Yet  looking  upward  in  its  grief  to  Heaven, 

Love  should  not  mourn  thee,  save  in  hope  and  trust. 


87 


PROEM  TO  YAMOYDEN. 

BY   R.    C.   SANDS. — 1820. 

Go  forth,  sad  fragments  of  a  broken  strain, 
The  last  that  either  bard  shall  e'er  essay  ! 
The  hand  can  ne'er  attempt  the  chords  again, 
That  first  awoke  them,  in  a  happier  day  : 
Where  sweeps  the  ocean  breeze  its  desert  way, 
His  requiem  murmurs  o'er  the  moaning  wave ; 
And  he  who  feebly  now  prolongs  the  lay 
Shall  ne'er  the  minstrel's  hallowed  honours  crave  ; 
His  harp  lies  buried  deep  in  that  untimely  grave  ! 

Friend  of  my  youth,*  with  thee  began  the  love 
Of  sacred  song ;  the  wont,  in  golden  dreams, 
'Mid  classic  realms  of  splendours  past  to  rove, 
O'er  haunted  steep,  and  by  immortal  streams  ; 
Where  the  blue  wave,  with  sparkling  bosom  gleams 
Round  shores,  the  mind's  eternal  heritage, 
For  ever  lit  by  memory's  twilight,  beams  ; 
Where  the  proud  dead,  that  live  in  storied  page, 
Beckon,  with  awful  port,  to  glory's  earlier  age. 

There  would  we  linger  oft,  entranc'd,  to  hear, 
O'er  battle  fields  the  epic  thunders  roll ; 
Or  list,  where  tragic  wail  upon  the  ear, 
Through  Argive  palaces  shrill  echoing,  stole ; 

*  The  Rev.  James  W.  Eastburn,  by  whom,  in  conjunction  with  Mr.  Sands3 
the  poem  of  Yamoyden  was  written,  in  separate  portions. 


88 


PROEM    TO    YAMOYDEN. 


There  would  we  mark,  uncurbed  by  all  control, 
In  central  heaven,  the  Theban  eagle's  flight ; 
Or  hold  communion  with  the  musing  soul 
Of  sage  or  bard,  who  sought,  'mid  pagan  night, 
In  lov'd  Athenian  groves,  for  truth's  eternal  light. 

Homeward  we  turned,  to  that  fair  land,  but  late 
Redeemed  from  the  strong  spell  that  bound  it  fast, 
Where  mystery,  brooding  o'er  the  waters,  sate 
And  kept  the  key,  till  three  millenniums  past ; 
When,  as  creation's  noblest  work  was  last, 
Latest,  to  man  it  was  vouchsafed,  to  see 
Nature's  great  wonder,  long  by  clouds  o'ercast, 
And  veiled  in  sacred  awe,  that  it  might  be 
An  empire  and  a  home,  most  worthy  for  the  free. 

And  here,  forerunners  strange  and  meet  were  found, 
Of  that  bless'd  freedom,  only  dreamed  before  ; — 
Dark  were  the  morning  mists,  that  lingered  round 
Their  birth  and  story,  as  the  hue  they  bore. 
"  Earth  was  their  mother  ;" — or  they  knew  no  more, 
Or  would  not  that  their  secret  should  be  told  ; 
For  they  were  grave  and  silent ;  and  such  lore, 
To  stranger  ears,  they  loved  not  to  unfold, 
The  long-transmitted  tales  their  sires  were  taught  of  old. 

Kind  nature's  commoners,  from  her  they  drew 
Their  needful  wants,  and  learn'd  not  how  to  hoard  ; 
And  him  whom  strength  and  wisdom  crowned,  they  knew, 
But  with  no  servile  reverence,  as  their  lord. 
And  on  their  mountain  summits  they  adored 
One  great,  good  Spirit,  in  his  high  abode, 
And  thence  their  incense  and  orisons  poured 
To  his  pervading  presence,  that  abroad 
They  felt  through  all  his  works, — their  Father,  King,  and  God. 


PROEM    TO    YAMOYDEN.  89 

And  in  the  mountain  mist,  the  torrent's  spray, 
The  quivering  forest,  or  the  glassy  flood, 
Soft  falling  showers,  or  hues  of  orient  day, 
They  imaged  spirits  beautiful  and  good  ; 
But  when  the  tempest  roared,  with  voices  rude, 
Or  fierce,  red  lightning  fired  the  forest  pine, 
Or  withering  heats  untimely  seared  the  wood, 
The  angry  forms  they  saw  of  powers  malign  ; 
These  they  besought  to  spare,  those  blest  for  aid  divine. 

As  the  fresh  sense  of  life,  through  every  vein, 
With  the  pure  air  they  drank,  inspiring  came, 
Comely  they  grew,  patient  of  toil  and  pain, 
And  as  the  fleet  deer's  agile  was  their  frame  ; 
Of  meaner  vices  scarce  they  knew  the  name  ; 
These  simple  truths  went  down  from  sire  to  son, — 
To  reverence  age, — the  sluggish  hunter's  shame, 
And  craven  warrior's  infamy  to  shun, — 
And  still  avenge  each  wrong,  to  friends  or  kindred  done. 

From  forest  shades  they  peered,  with  awful  dread, 
When,  uttering  flame  and  thunder  from  its  side, 
The  ocean-monster,  with  broad  wings  outspread, 
Came  ploughing  gallantly  the  virgin  tide. 
Few  years  have  pass'd,  and  all  their  forests'  pride 
From  shores  and  hills  has  vanished,  with  the  race, 
Their  tenants  erst,  from  memory  who  have  died, 
Like  airy  shapes,  which  eld  was  wont  to  trace, 
In  each  green  thicket's  depths,  and  lone,  sequestered  place. 

And  many  a  gloomy  tale,  tradition  yet 
Saves  from  oblivion,  of  their  struggles  vain, 
Their  prowess  and  their  wrongs,  for  rhymer  meet, 
To  people  scenes,  where  still  their  names  remain  ; 

12 


90 


PROEM    TO    YAMOYDEN. 


And  so  began  our  young,  delighted  strain, 
That  would  evoke  the  plumed  chieftains  brave, 
And  bid  their  martial  hosts  arise  again, 
Where  Narraganset's  tides  roll  by  their  grave, 
And  Haup's  romantic  steeps  are  piled  above  the  wave. 

Friend  of  my  youth  !  with  thee  began  my  song, 
And  o'er  thy  bier  its  latest  accents  die  ; 
Misled  in  phantom-peopled  realms  too  long, — 
Though  not  to  me  the  muse  averse  deny, 
Sometimes,  perhaps,  her  visions  to  descry, 
Such  thriftless  pastime  should  with  youth  be  o'er  ; 
And  he  who  loved  with  thee  his  notes  to  try, 
But  for  thy  sake,  such  idlesse  would  deplore, 

And  swears  to  meditate  the  thankless  muse  no  more. 

9 

But,  no  !  the  freshness  of  the  past  shall  still 
Sacred  to  memory's  holiest  musings  be ; 
When  through  the  ideal  fields  of  song,  at  will, 
He  roved  and  gathered  chaplets  wild  with  thee  ; 
When,  reckless  of  the  world,  alone  and  free, 
Like  two  proud  barks,  we  kept  our  careless  way, 
That  sail  by  moonlight  o'er  the  tranquil  sea  ; 
Their  white  apparel  and  their  streamers  gay, 
Bright  gleaming  o'er  the  main,  beneath  the  ghostly  ray  ;- 

And  downward,  far,  reflected  in  the  clear 
Blue  depths,  the  eye  their  fairy  tackling  sees  ; 
So  buoyant,  they  do  seem  to  float  in  air, 
And  silently  obey  the  noiseless  breeze  ; 
Till,  all  too  soon,  as  the  rude  winds  may  please, 
They  part  for  distant  ports  :  the  gales  benign 
Swift  wafting,  bore,  by  Heaven's  all-wise  decrees, 
To  its  own  harbour  sure,  where  each  divine 
And  joyous  vision,  seen  before  in  dreams,  is  thine. 


THE    INDIAN.  91 

Muses  of  Helicon  !  melodious  race 
Of  Jove  and  golden-haired  Mnemosyne  ; 
Whose  art  from  memory  blots  each  sadder  trace, 
And  drives  each  scowling  form  of  grief  away  ! 
Who,  round  the  violet  fount,  your  measures  gay 
Once  trod,  and  round  the  altar  of  great  Jove  ; 
Whence,  wrapt  in  silvery  clouds,  your  nightly  way 
Ye  held,  and  ravishing  strains  of  music  wove, 
That  soothed  the  Thunderer's  soul,  and  filled  his  courts  above. 

Bright  choir  !  with  lips  untempted,  and  with  zone 
Sparkling,  and  unapproached  by  touch  profane ; 
Ye,  to  whose  gladsome  bosoms  ne'er  was  known 
The  blight  of  sorrow,  or  the  throb  of  pain  ; 
Rightly  invoked, — if  right  the  elected  swain, 
On  your  own  mountain's  side  ye  taught  of  yore, 
Whose  honoured  hand  took  not  your  gift  in  vain, 
Worthy  the  budding  laurel-bough  it  bore, — * 
Farewell !  a  long  farewell !  I  worship  you  no  more. 


THE    INDIAN. 

BY    JONATHAN    LAWRENCE,     JUN. 

AWAY,  away  to  forest  shades  ! 

Fly,  fly  with  me  the  haunts  of  men ! 
I  would  not  give  my  sunlit  glades, 

My  talking  stream,  and  silent  glen, 
For  all  the  pageantry  of  slaves, 
Their  fettered  lives  and  trampled  graves. 

*  Hcsiod.  Theog.  I  1.  60.  30. 


92  THE    INDIAN. 

Away  from  wealth !  our  wampum  strings 
Ask  not  the  toil,  the  woes  of  them 

From  whom  the  lash,  the  iron  wrings 
The  golden  dross,  the  tear-soiled  gem ; 

Yet  bind  our  hearts  in  the  pure  tie 

That  gold  or  gems  could  never  buy. 

And  power  !  what  is  it  ye  who  rule 
The  hands  without  the  souls  ?  oh,  ye 

Can  tell  how  mean  the  tinselled  fool, 
With  all  his  hollow  mockery ! 

The  slave  of  slaves  who  hate,  yet  bow, 

With  serving  lip  but  scorning  brow. 

And  love,  dear  love  !  how  can  they  feel 
The  wild  desire,  the  burning  flame, 

That  thrills  each  pulse  arid  bids  us  kneel- 
The  power  of  the  adored  name  ; 

The  glance  that  sins  in  the  met  eye, 

Yet  loved  for  its  idolatry  ! 

They  never  knew  the  perfect  bliss, 
To  clasp  in  the  entwined  bovver 

Her  trembling  form,  to  steal  the  kiss 
She  would  deny  but  hath  not  power ; 

To  list  that  voice  that  charms  the  grove, 

And  trembles  when  it  tells  of  love. 

Nor  have  they  felt  the  pride,  the  thrill, 
When  bounding  for  the  fated  deer  ; 

O'er  rock  and  sod,  o'er  vale  and  hill, 
The  hunter  flies,  nor  dreams  of  fear, 

And  brings  his  maid  the  evening  prey, 

To  speak  more  love  than  words  can  say. 


THE    INDIAN. 

Have  they  in  death  the  sod,  the  stones, 
The  silence  of  the  shading  tree ; 

Where  glory  decks  the  storied  bones 

Of  him  whose  life,  whose  death,  was  free  ; 

And  minstrel  mourns  his  arm  whose  blow 

The  foeman  cowered  and  quailed  below  ? 

No  ;  they,  confined  and  fettered,  they 
The  sons  of  sires  to  fame  unknown, 

With  nerveless  hands  and  souls  of  clay, 
Half  life,  half  death,  loathe,  but  live  on  ; 

And  sink  unsung,  ignobly  lie 

In  dark  oblivion's  apathy. 

Poor  fools  !  the  wild  and  mountain  chase 
Would  rend  their  frail  and  sickly  forms  ; 

But  for  their  God,  how  would  they  face, 
Our  bands  of  fire,  our  sons  of  storms  ; 

Breasts  that  have  never  recked  of  fears, 

And  eyes  that  leave  to  women^  tears. 

They  tell  us  of  their  kings,  who  gave 
To  them  our  wild,  unfettered  shore  ; 

To  them  !  why  let  them  chain  the  wave, 
And  hush  its  everlasting  roar  ! 

Then  may  we  own  their  sway,  but  hark  ! 

Our  warriors  never  miss  their  mark. 

Away,  away  from  such  as  these  ! 

Free  as  the  wild  bird  on  the  wing, 
I  see  my  own,  my  loved  green  trees, 

I  hear  our  black-haired  maidens  sing ; 
I  fly  from  such  a  world  as  this, 
To  rove,  to  love,  to  live  in  bliss ! 


94 


MIDNIGHT    THOUGHTS. 

BY   WILLIAM   DUER. 

FAIR  orb  !  so  peacefully  sublime, 

In  silence  rolling  high, 
Know'st  thou  of  passion ,  or  of  crime, 

Or  earthly  vanity  ? 

In  that  bright  world  can  lust  abide, 

Or  murder  bare  his  arm  ? 
With  thee  are  wars,  and  kings,  and  pride, 

And  the  loud  trump's  alarm  ? 

What  beings,  by  what  motives  led, 

Inhale  thy  morning  breeze  ? 
Doth  man  upon  thy  mountains  tread, 

Or  float  upon  thy  seas  ? 

Say,  whence  are  they?  and  what  their  fate? 

Whom  whirls  around  thy  ball  ? 
Their  present  and  their  future  state, 

Their  hopes  and  fears  recall  ? 

Canst  thou  of  a  Redeemer  tell, 

Or  a  Betrayer's  kiss  ? 
Their's  is  a  Heaven  or  a  Hell  ? 

Eternal  woe  or  bliss  ? 

Can  infidelity  exist, 

And  gaze  upon  that  sky  ? 
Here  would  I  bid  the  Atheist 

God's  finger  to  deny. 


MIDNIGHT    THOUGHTS.  95 

What  horrid  sounds  !  what  horrid  sights  ! 

What  wretched  blood  is  spilt ! 
While  thou,  and  all  the  eternal  lights, 

Shine  conscious  on  the  guilt  ? 

Thou  hear'st  red  Murder's  victims  cry  ; 

Thou  mark'st  Lust's  stealthy  pace  ; 
And  Avarice  hide  his  heap  and  sigh  ; 

And  Rapine's  reckless  face. 

In  thy  pale  light  the  Suicide, 

By  some  deep  lonely  lake, 
Or  from  the  headlong  torrent's  side 

Doth  the  vain  world  forsake. 

And  often,  ere  thy  course  is  run, 

Thy  cold,  uncertain  light 
Gleams  where  the  culprit's  skeleton 

Swings  to  the  winds  of  night. 

A  light  cloud  hangs  upon  thy  brow, 

(What  foul  deed  would  it  hide  ?) 
'Tis  gone  :  thine  orb,  unshaded  now, 

Looks  down  on  human  pride. 

And  now  the  midnight  hour  invites 

Th'  accursed  witch's  vow, 
While  to  her  thrice  accursed  rites 

Sole  witness  rollest  thou ! 

Lo  !  underneath  yon  falling  tower 

The  tottering  beldame  seeks 
Herbs,  of  some  hidden  evil  power, 

While  muttered  charms  she  speaks. 


96     LINES   WRITTEN  ON  THE  COVER  OP  A  PRAYER  BOOK. 

Or  where  some  noisome  cavern  yawns, 

Where  vipers  get  their  food, 
Or  where  the  Nile's  huge  offspring  spawns 

Her  pestilential  brood : 

There — while  the  bubbling  cauldron  sings 
Beneath  their  eldritch  glance — 

As  wild  their  fiendish  laughter  rings, 
The  haggard  sisters  dance. 

Can  sin  endure  thy  majesty, 
Nor  thy  pure  presence  fly  ? 
'Tis  like  the  sad  severity 
VS     Of  a  fond  father's  eye. 

There,  where  no  mortal  eye  can  see, 

No  mortal  voice  can  tell, 
Wisdom  hath  marked  thy  path  to  be 

Th'  Almighty's  sentinel. 


'- 


LINES  WRITTEN  ON  THE  COVER  OF  A  PRAYER 

BOOK. 


BY   THOMAS   SLIDELL. 


THERE  is  a  tree,  whose  boughs  are  clad 
With  foliage  that  never  dies ; 

Whose  fruits  perennially  thrive, 

And  whose  tall  top  salutes  the  skies. 


ODE    TO   JAMESTOWN.  97 

There  is  a  flower  of  loveliest  hues, 
No  mildews  blast  its  changeless  bloom ; 

It  smiles  at  the  rude  tempest's  wrath, 

And  breathes  a  still  more  sweet  perfume. 

There  is  a  star,  whose  constant  rays 

Beam  brightest  in  the  darkest  hour, 
And  cheer  the  weary  pilgrim's  heart, 

Though  storms  around  his  pathway  lower. 

That  tree,  the  Tree  of  Life  is  called, 
That  flower  blooms  on  Virtue's  stem, 

That  star,  whose  rays  are  never  veiled, 
Is  the  bright  Star  of  Bethlehem. 


ODE   TO   JAMESTOWN. 


BY  J.   K.   PAULDING. 


OLD  cradle  of  an  infant  world, 

In  which  a  nestling  empire  lay, 
Struggling  awhile,  ere  she  unfurl'd, 

Her  gallant  wing  and  soar'd  away ; 
All  hail !  thou  birth-place  of  the  glowing  west, 
Thou  seem'st  the  towering  eagle's  ruin'd  nest ! 

What  solemn  recollections  throng, 

What  touching  visions  rise, 
As  wand'ring  these  old  stones  among, 

I  backward  turn  mine  eyes, 
And  see  the  shadows  of  the  dead  flit  round, 
Like  spirits,  when  the  last  dread  trump  shall  sound. 
13 


98  ODE    TO    JAMESTOWN. 

The  wonders  of  an  age  combin'd 

In  one  short  moment  memory  supplies, 
They  throng  upon  my  waken'd  mind, 

As  time's  dark  curtains  rise. 
The  volume  of  a  hundred  buried  years, 
Condens'd  in  one  bright  sheet,  appears. 

I  hear  the  angry  ocean  rave, 

I  see  the  lonely  little  barque 
Scudding  along  the  crested  wave, 
Freighted  like  old  Noah's  ark, 
As  o'er  the  drowned  earth  it  whirl'd, 
With  the  forefathers  of  another  world. 

I  see  a  train  of  exiles  stand, 
Amid  the  desert,,  desolate, 
The  fathers  of  my  native  land, 
The  daring  pioneers  of  fate, 
Who  brav'd  the  perils  of  the  sea  and  earth, 
And  gave  a  boundless  empire  birth. 

I  see  the  gloomy  Indian  range 

His  woodland  empire,  free  as  air  ; 
I  see  the  gloomy  forest  change, 

The  shadowy  earth  laid  bare ; 
And,  where  the  red  man  chas'd  the  bounding  deer, 
The  smiling  labours  of  the  white  appear. 

I  see  the  haughty  warrior  gaze 

In  wonder  or  in  scorn, 
As  the  pale  faces  sweat  to  raise 

Their  scanty  fields  of  corn, 
While  he,  the  monarch  of  the  boundless  wood, 
By  sport,  or  hair-brain'd  rapine,  wins  his  food. 


ODE    TO    JAMESTOWN.  99 

A  moment,  and  the  pageant's  gone  ; 

The  red  men  are  no  more  ; 
The  pale  fac'd  strangers  stand  alone 

Upon  the  river's  shore  ; 

And  the  proud  wood  king,  who  their  arts  disdain'd, 
Finds  but  a  bloody  grave  where  once  he  reign'd. 

The  forest  reels  beneath  the  stroke 

Of  sturdy  woodman's  axe  ; 
The  earth  receives  the  white  man's  yoke, 

And  pays  her  willing  tax 

Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  golden  harvest  fields, 
And  all  that  nature  to  blithe  labour  yields. 

Then  growing  hamlets  rear  their  heads, 

And  gathering  crowds  expand, 
Far  as  my  fancy's  vision  spreads, 

O'er  many  a  boundless  land, 
Till  what  was  once  a  world  of  savage  strife, 
Teems  with  the  richest  gifts  of  social  life. 

Empire  to  empire  swift  succeeds, 

Each  happy,  great,  and  free  ; 
One  empire  still  another  breeds, 

A  giant  progeny, 

To  war  upon  the  pigmy  gods  of  earth, 
The  tyrants,  to  whom  ignorance  gave  birth. 

Then,  as  I  turn  my  thoughts  to  trace 

The  fount  whence  these  rich  waters  sprung, 
I  glance  towards  this  lonely  place, 

And  find  it,  these  rude  stones  among. 
Here  rest  the  sires  of  millions,  sleeping  sound, 
The  Argonauts,  the  golden  fleece  that  found. 


100  ODE    TO   JAMESTOWN. 

Their  names  have  been  forgotten  long ; 
The  stone,  but  not  a  word,  remains  ; 
They  cannot  live  in  deathless  song, 

Nor  breathe  in  pious  strains. 
Yet  this  sublime  obscurity,  to  me 
More  touching  is,  than  poet's  rhapsody. 

They  live  in  millions  that  now  breathe  ; 

They  live  in  millions  yet  unborn, 
And  pious  gratitude  shall  wreathe 

As  bright  a  crown  as  e'er  was  worn, 
And  hang  it  on  the  green  leav'd  bough, 
That  whispers  to  the  nameless  dead  below. 

No  one  that  inspiration  drinks ; 

No  one  that  loves  his  native  land  ; 
No  one  that  reasons,  feels,  or  thinks, 
Can  'mid  these  lonely  ruins  stand, 
Without  a  moisten'd  eye,  a  grateful  tear 
Of  reverent  gratitude  to  those  that  moulder  here. 

The  mighty  shade  now  hovers  round — 

Of  HIM  whose  strange,  yet  bright  career, 
Is  written  on  this  sacred  ground 

In  letters  that  no  time  shall  sere  ; 
Who  in  the  old  world  smote  the  turban'd  crew, 
And  founded  Christian  Empires  in  the  new. 

And  SHE  !  the  glorious  Indian  maid, 

The  tutelary  of  this  land, 
The  angel  of  the  woodland  shade, 

The  miracle  of  God's  own  hand, 
Who  join'd  man's  heart  to  woman's  softest  grace, 
And  thrice  redeem'd  the  scourgers  of  her  race. 


LOOK    ALOFT.  101 

Sister  of  charity  and  love, 

Whose  life-blood  was  soft  Pity's  tide, 
Dear  Goddess  of  the  Sylvan  grove. 

Flower  of  the  Forest,  nature's  pride, 
He  is  no  man  who  does  not  bend  the  knee, 
And  she  no  woman  who  is  not  like  thee  ! 

Jamestown,  and  Plymouth's  hallow'd  rock, 

To  me  shall  ever  sacred  be — 
I  care  not  who  my  themes  may  mock, 

Or  sneer  at  them  and  me. 
I  envy  not  the  brute  who  here  can  stand, 
Without  a  prayer  for  his  own  native  land. 

And  if  the  recreant  crawl  her  earth, 

Or  breathe  Virginia's  air, 
Or,  in  New-England  claim  his  birth, 

From  the  old  Pilgrim's  there, 
He  is  a  bastard,  if  he  dare  to  mock, 
Old  Jamestown's  shrine,  or  Plymouth's  famous  rock. 


LOOK  ALOFT. 

BY    JONATHAN    LAWRENCE,    JUN. 

[The  following  lines  were  suggested  by  an  anecdote  said  to  have  been  re 
lated  by  the  late  Dr.  Godman,  of  the  ship-boy  who  was  about  to  fall  from  the 
rigging,  and  was  only  saved  by  the  mate's  characteristic  exclamation,  "  Look 
aloft,  you  lubber."] 

IN  the  tempest  of  life,  when  the  wave  and  the  gale 
Are  around  and  above,  if  thy  footing  should  fail — 
If  thine  eye  should  grow  dim  and  thy  caution  depart — 
"  Look  aloft"  and  be  firm,  and  be  fearless  of  heart. 


102  FRAGMENT. 

If  the  friend,  who  embraced  in  prosperity's  glow 
With  a  smile  for  each  joy  and  a  tear  for  each  woe, 
Should  betray  thee  when  sorrow  like  clouds  are  arrayed, 
"  Look  aloft"  to  the  friendship  which  never  shall  fade. 

Should  the  visions  which  hope  spreads  in  light  to  thine  eye, 
Like  the  tints  of  the  rainbow,  but  brighten  to  fly, 
Then  turn,  and  through  tears  of  repentant  regret, 
"  Look  aloft"  to  the  sun  that  is  never  to  set. 

Should  they  who  are  dearest,  the  son  of  thy  heart — 
The  wife  of  thy  bosom — in  sorrow  depart, 
"  Look  aloft,"  from  the  darkness  and  dust  of  the  tomb, 
To  that  soil  where  "  affection  is  ever  in  bloom." 

And  oh !  when  death  comes  in  terrors,  to  cast, 
His  fears  on  the  future,  his  pall  on  the  past, 
In  that  moment  of  darkness,  with  hope  in  thy  heart, 
And  a  smile  in  thine  eye,  "  look  aloft"  and  depart ! 


FRAGMENT. 

BY   WILLIAM    LIVINGSTON. — 1747. 

FATHER  of  Light !  exhaustless  source  of  good ! 
Supreme,  eternal,  self-existent  God  ! 
Before  the  beamy  sun  dispensed  a  ray, 
Flamed  in  the  azure  vault,  and  gave  the  day ; 
Before  the  glimmering  moon  with  borrowed  light 
Shone  queen  amid  the  silver  host  of  night, 


BYRON.  103 

High  in  the  heavens,  thou  reign'dst  superior  Lord, 
By  suppliant  angels  worshipp'd  and  adored. 

With  the  Celestial  choir  then  let  me  join 

In  cheerful  praises  to  the  power  divine. 

To  sing  thy  praise,  do  thou,  O  God  !  inspire 

A  mortal  breast  with  more  than  mortal  fire. 

In  dreadful  majesty  thou  sitt'st  enthroned, 

With  light  encircled,  and  with  glory  crowned  : 

Through  all  infinitude  extends  thy  reign, 

For  thee,  nor  heaven,  nor  heaven  of  heavens  contain  ; 

But  though  thy  throne  is  fix'd  above  the  sky 

Thy  omnipresence  fills  immensity. 


BYRON. 

BY   LUCRETIA   M.    DAVIDSON. 

His  faults  were  great,  his  virtues  less, 
His  mind  a  burning  lamp  of  Heaven  ; 

His  talents  were  bestowed  to  bless, 
But  were  as  vainly  lost  as  given. 

His  was  a  harp  of  heavenly  sound, 

The  numbers  wild,  and  bold,  and  clear  ; 

But  ah  !  some  demon,  hovering  round, 
Tuned  its  sweet  chords  to  Sin  and  Fear. 

His  was  a  mind  of  giant  mould, 
Which  grasped  at  all  beneath  the  skies  ; 

And  his,  a  heart,  so  icy  cold, 
That  virtue  in  its  recess  dies. 


104 


JOY    AND    SORROW. 

BY  J.  G.  BROOKS. 

JOY  kneels  at  morning's  rosy  prime, 

In  worship  to  the  rising  sun  ; 
But  Sorrow  loves  the  calmer  time, 

When  the  day-god  his  course  hath  run ; 
When  night  is  on  her  shadowy  car, 

Pale  Sorrow  wakes  while  Joy  doth  sleep ; 
And  guided  by  the  evening  star, 

She  wanders  forth  to  muse  and  weep. 

Joy  loves  to  cull  the  summer  flower, 

And  wreath  it  round  his  happy  brow ; 
But  when  the  dark  autumnal  hour 

Hath  laid  the  leaf  and  blossoms  low  ; 
When  the  frail  bud  hath  lost  its  worth, 

And  Joy  hath  dashed  it  from  his  crest  ; 
Then  Sorrow  takes  it  from  the  earth, 

To  wither  on  her  withered  breast. 


TO    THE    EVENING    STAR. 

BY   LUCRETIA   M.    DAVIDSON. 

THOU  brightly-glittering  star  of  even, 
Thou  gem  upon  the  brow  of  Heaven, 
Oh  !  were  this  fluttering  spirit  free, 
How  quick  'twould  spread  its  wings  to  thee. 


THE  FALLS  OF  THE  PASSAIC.  105 

How  calmly,  brightly  dost  thou  shine, 
Like  the  pure  lamp  in  Virtue's  shrine  ! 
Sure  the  fair  world  which  thou  may'st  boast 
Was  never  ransomed,  never  lost. 

There,  beings  pure  as  Heaven's  own  air, 
Their  hopes,  their  joys  together  share  ; 
While  hovering  angels  touch  the  string, 
And  seraphs  spread  the  sheltering  wing. 

There  cloudless  days  and  brilliant  nights, 
Illumed  by  Heaven's  refulgent  lights  ; 
There  seasons,  years,  unnoticed  roll, 
And  unregretted  by  the  soul. 

Thou  little  sparkling  star  of  even, 
Thou  gem  upon  an  azure  Heaven, 
How  swiftly  will  I  soar  to  thee 
When  this  imprisoned  soul  is  free. 


THE  FALLS  OF  THE  PASSAIC. 


BY    WASHINGTON   IRVING. 


IN  a  wild,  tranquil  vale,  fringed  with  forests  of  green, 
Where  nature  had  fashion'd  a  soft,  sylvan  scene, 
The  retreat  of  the  ring-dove,  the  haunt  of  the  deer, 
Passaic  in  silence  roll'd  gentle  and  clear. 

14 


106  THE    FALLS    OP    THE    PASSAIC. 

No  grandeur  of  prospect  astonish'd  the  sight, 
No  abruptness  sublime  mingled  awe  with  delight ; 
Here  the  wild  flow'ret  blossom'd,  the  elm  proudly  waved, 
And  pure  was  the  current  the  green  bank  that  laved. 

But  the  spirit  that  ruled  o'er  the  thick  tangled  wood, 
And  deep  in  its  gloom  fix'd  his  murky  abode, 
Who  loved  the  wild  scene  that  the  whirlwinds  deform, 
And  gloried  in  thunder,  and  lightning  and  storm ; 

All  flush'd  from  the  tumult  of  battle  he  came, 
Where  the  red  men  encounter'd  the  children  of  flame, 
While  the  noise  of  the  war-whoop  still  rang  in  his  ears, 
And  the  fresh  bleeding  scalp  as  a  trophy  he  bears : 

With  a  glance  of  disgust  he  the  landscape  survey'd, 
With  its  fragrant  wild  flowers,  its  wide-waving  shade ; — 
Where  Passaic  meanders  through  margins  of  green, 
So  transparent  its  waters,  its  surface  serene. 

He  rived  the  green  hills,  the  wild  woods  he  laid  low ; 
He  taught  the  pure  stream  in  rough  channels  to  flow  ; 
He  rent  the  rude  rock,  the  steep  precipice  gave, 
And  hurl'd  down  the  chasm  the  thundering  wave. 

Countless  moons  have  since  rolled  in  the  long  lapse  of  time — 
Cultivation  has  softened  those  features  sublime  ; 
The  axe  of  the  white  man  has  lighten'd  the  shade, 
And  dispell'd  the  deep  gloom  of  the  thicketed  glade. 

But  the  stranger  still  gazes  with  wondering  eye, 
On  the  rocks  rudely  torn,  and  groves  mounted  on  high  ; 
Still  loves  on  the  cliff's  dizzy  borders  to  roam, 
Where  the  torrent  leaps  headlong  embosom'd  in  foam. 


107 


DRINK    AND    AWAY. 

BY  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  CROSWELL. 

[There  is  a  beautiful  rill  in  Barbary  received  into  a  large  basin,  which  bears 
a  name  signifying  "  Drink  and  Away,"  from  the  great  danger  of  meeting  with 
rogues  and  assassins. — DR.  SHAW.] 

UP  !  pilgrim  and  rover, 

Redouble  thy  haste ! 
Nor  rest  thee  till  over 

Life's  wearisome  waste. 
Ere  the  wild  forest  ranger 

Thy  footsteps  betray 
To  trouble  and  danger, — 

Oh,  drink  and  away  ! 

Here  lurks  the  dark  savage 

By  night  and  by  day, 
To  rob  and  to  ravage, 

Nor  scruples  to  slay. 
He  waits  for  the  slaughter : 

The  blood  of  his  prey 
Shall  stain  the  still  water, — 

Then  drink  and  away  ! 

With  toil  though  thou  languish, 

The  mandate  obey, 
Spur  on,  though  in  anguish, 

There's  death  in  delay  ! 
No  blood-hound,  want-wasted, 

Is  fiercer  than  they  : — 
Pass  by  it  un  tasted — 

Or  drink  and  away  ! 


108  THE    HUDSON. 

Though  sore  be  the  trial, 

Thy  God  is  thy  stay, 
Though  deep  the  denial, 

Yield  not  in  dismay, 
But,  wrapt  in  high  vision, 

Look  on  to  the  day 
When  the  fountains  Elysian 

Thy  thirst  shall  allay. 

There  shalt  thou  for  ever 
Enjoy  thy  repose 

Where  life's  gentle  river 
Eternally  flows, 

Yea,  there  shalt  thou  rest  thee 
f  For  ever  and  aye, 

With  none  to  molest  thee — 
Then,  drink  and  away. 


THE    HUDSON. 

BY  MARGARETTA  V.  FAUGERES,  1793. 

THROUGH  many  a  blooming  wild  and  woodland  green 

The  Hudson's  sleeping  waters  winding  stray  ; 
Now  'mongst  the  hills  its  silvery  waves  are  seen, 

And  now  through  arching  willows  steal  away : 
Now  more  majestic  rolls  the  ample  tide, 

Tall  waving  elms  its  clovery  borders  shade, 
And  many  a  stately  dome,  in  ancient  pride, 

And  hoary  grandeur,  there  exalts  its  head. 


THE    HUDSON.  109 

There  trace  the  marks  of  culture's  sunburnt  hand, 

The  honeyed  buck-wheat's  clustering  blossoms  view, 
Dripping  rich  odours,  mark  the  beard-grain  bland, 

The  loaded  orchard,  and  the  flax  field  blue  ; 
The  grassy  hill,  the  quivering  poplar  grove, 

The  copse  of  hazel,  and  the  tufted  bank, 
The  long  green  valley  where  the  white  flocks  rove, 

The  jutting  rock,  o'erhung  with  ivy  dank  ; 
The  tall  pines  waving  on  the  mountain's  brow, 

Whose  lofty  spires  catch  day's  last  lingering  beam  ; 

The  bending  willow  weeping  o'er  the  stream, 
The  brook's  soft  gurglings,  and  the  garden's  glow. 

Low  sunk  between  the  Alleganian  hills, 
For  many  a  league  the  sullen  waters  glide, 
And  the  deep  murmur  of  the  crowded  tide, 

With  pleasing  awe  the  wondering  voyager  fills. 

On  the  green  summit  of  yon  lofty  clift 
A  peaceful  runnel  gurgles  clear  and  slow, 

Then  down  the  craggy  steep-side  dashing  swift, 
Tremendous  falls  in  the  white  surge  below. 

Here  spreads  a  clovery  lawn  its  verdure  far, 
Around  it  mountains  vast  their  forests  rear, 

And  long  ere  day  hath  left  its  burnish'd  car, 

The  dews  of  night  have  shed  their  odours  there. 

O 

There  hangs  a  louring  rock  across  the  deep  ; 

Hoarse  roar  the  waves  its  broken  base  around  ; 
Through  its  dark  caverns  noisy  whirlwinds  sweep, 

While  Horror  startles  at  the  fearful  sound. 
The  shivering  sails  that  cut  the  fluttering  breeze, 

Glide  through  these  winding  rocks  with  airy  sweep  : 
Beneath  the  cooling  glooms  of  waving  trees, 

And  sloping  pastures  speck'd  with  fleecy  sheep. 


110 


TRENTON  FALLS,  NEAR  UTICA. 

BY    ANTHONY   BLEECKER. 
Ob:    1827. 

YE  hills,  who  have  for  ages  stood 
Sublimely  in  your  solitude, 

Listening  the  wild  water's  roar, 
As  thundering  down,  from  steep  to  steep, 
Along  your  wave-worn  sides  they  sweep, 

Dashing  their  foam  from  shore  to  shore. 

Wild  birds,  that  loved  the  deep  recess, 
Fell  beast  that  roved  the  wilderness, 

And  savage  men  once  hoverd  round  : 
But  startled  at  your  bellowing  waves, 
Your  frowning  cliffs,  and  echoing  caves, 

Affrighted  fled  the  enchanted  ground. 

How  changed  the  scene  ! — your  lofty  trees, 
Which  bent  but  to  the  mountain  breeze, 

Have  sunk  beneath  the  woodman's  blade  ; 
New  sun-light  through  your  forest  pours, 
Paths  wind  along  your  sides  and  shores, 

And  footsteps  all  your  haunts  invade. 

Now  boor,  and  beau,  and  lady  fair, 
In  gay  costume  each  day  repair, 

Where  thy  proud  rocks  exposed  stand, 
While  echo,  from  her  old  retreats, 
With  babbling  tongue  strange  words  repeats, 

From  babblers  on  your  stony  strand. 


THE    MINSTREL    BOY.  Ill 

And  see — the  torrent's  rocky  floor, 
"With  names  and  dates  all  scribbled  o'er, 

Vile  blurs  on  nature's  heraldry ; 
O  bid  your  river  in  its  race. 
These  mean  memorials  soon  efface, 

And  keep  your  own  proud  album  free. 

Languid  thy  tides,  and  quell'd  thy  powers, 
But  soon  Autumnus  with  his  showers, 

Shall  all  thy  wasted  strength  restore  ; 
Then  will  these  ramblers  down  thy  steep, 
With  terror  pale  their  distance  keep, 

Nor  dare  to  touch  thy  trembling  shore. 

But  spare,  Oh  !  river,  in  thy  rage, 
One  name  upon  thy  stony  page  ; 

'Tis  hers — the  fairest  of  the  fair  ; 
And  when  she  comes  these  scenes  to  scan, 
Then  tell  her,  Echo,  if  you  can, 

His  humble  name  who  wrote  it  there. 


THE    DUMB    MINSTREL. 


BY   JAMES   NACK. 


AND  am  I  doom'd  to  be  denied  for  ever 

The  blessings  that  to  all  around  are  given  ? 

And  shall  those  links  be  re-united  ever, 

That  bound  me  to  mankind  till  they  were  riven 

In  childhood's  day  ?     Alas  !  how  soon  to  sever 
From  social  intercourse,  the  doom  of  heaven 

Was  pass'd  upon  me  !     And  the  hope  how  vain, 

That  the  decree  may  be  recall'd  again. 


112  THE    MINSTREL    BOY. 

Amid  a  throng  in  deep  attention  bound, 
To  catch  the  accents  that  from  others  fall, 

The  flow  of  eloquence  the  heavenly  sound 
Breathed  from  the  soul  of  melody,  while  all 

Instructed  or  delighted  list  around, 

Vacant  unconsciousness  must  me  enthrall ! 

I  can  but  watch  each  animated  face, 

And  there  attempt  th'  inspiring  theme  to  trace. 


Unheard,  unheeded  are  the  lips  by  me, 

To  others  that  unfold  some  heaven-born  art, 

And  melody — Oh,  dearest  melody  ! 

How  had  thine  accents,  thrilling  to  my  heart, 

Awaken'd  all  its  strings  to  sympathy, 
Bidding  the  spirit  at  thy  magic  start ! 

How  had  my  heart  responsive  to  the  strain, 

Throbb'd  in  love's  wild  delight  or  soothing  pain. 


In  vain — alas,  in  vain  !  thy  numbers  roll — 
Within  my  heart  no  echo  they  inspire ; 

Though  form'd  by  nature  in  thy  sweet  control, 
To  melt  with  tenderness,  or  glow  with  fire, 

Misfortune  closed  the  portals  of  the  soul  ; 
And  till  an  Orpheus  rise  to  sweep  the  lyre, 

That  can  to  animation  kindle  stone, 

To  me  thy  thrilling  power  must  be  unknown. 


113 


THE  GREEN  ISLE  OF  LOVERS. 


BY     R.     C.     SANDS. 


THEY  say  that  afar  in  the  land  of  the  west, 
Where  the  bright  golden  sun  sinks  in  glory  to  rest, 
'Mid  fens  where  the  hunter  ne'er  ventured  to  tread, 
A  fair  lake  unruffled  and  sparkling  is  spread  ; 
Where,  lost  in  his  course,  the  rapt  Indian  discovers, 
In  distance  seen  dimly,  the  green  isle  of  lovers. 

There  verdure  fades  never  ;  immortal  in  bloom, 
Soft  waves  the  magnolia  its  groves  of  perfume  ; 
And  low  bends  the  branch  with  rich  fruitage  depress'd, 
All  glowing  like  gems  in  the  crowns  of  the  east ; 
There  the  bright  eye  of  nature,  in  mild  glory  hovers  : 
'Tis  the  land  of  the  sunbeam, — the  green  isle  of  lovers  ! 

Sweet  strains  wildly  float  on  the  breezes  that  kiss 
The  calm-flowing  lake  round  that  region  of  bliss ; 
Where,  wreathing  their  garlands  of  amaranth,  fair  choirs 
Glad  measures  still  weave  to  the  sound  that  inspires 
The  dance  and  the  revel,  'mid  forests  that  cover 
On  high  with  their  shade  the  green  isle  of  the  lover. 

But  fierce  as  the  snake  with  his  eyeballs  of  fire, 
When  his  scales  are  all  brilliant  and  glowing  with  ire, 
Are  the  warriors  to  all,  save  the  maids  of  their  isle, 
Whose  law  is  their  will,  whose  life  is  their  smile  ; 
From  beauty  there  valour  and  strength  are  not  rovers, 
And  peace  reigns  supreme  in  the  green  isle  of  lovers. 

15 


114 


THAT    SILENT    MOON. 


And  he  who  has  sought  to  set  foot  on  its  shore, 

In  mazes  perplex'd,  has  beheld  it  no  more  ; 

It  fleets  on  the  vision,  deluding  the  view, 

Its  banks  still  retire  as  the  hunters  pursue ; 

O  !  who  in  this  vain  world  of  wo  shall  discover, 

The  home  undisturb'd,  the  green  isle  of  the  lover ! 


THAT    SILENT    MOON. 

BY   THE   RT.   REV.    G.    W.    DOANE. 

THAT  silent  moon,  that  silent  moon, 
Careering  now  through  cloudless  sky, 

Oh  !  who  shall  tell  what  varied  scenes 
Have  pass'd  beneath  her  placid  eye, 

Since  first,  to  light  this  wayward  earth. 

She  walked  in  tranquil  beauty  forth. 

How  oft  has  guilt's  unhallow'd  hand, 
And  superstition's  senseless  rite, 

And  loud,  licentious  revelry, 

Profaned  her  pure  and  holy  light : 

Small  sympathy  is  hers,  I  ween, 

With  sights  like  these,  that  virgin  queen. 

But  dear  to  her,  in  summer  eve, 
By  rippling  wave,  or  tufted  grove, 

When  hand  in  hand  is  purely  clasp'd, 
And  heart  meets  heart  in  holy  love, 

To  smile,  in  quiet  loneliness, 

And  hear  each  whisper'd  vow  and  bless. 


THAT    SILENT    MOON.  115 

Dispersed  along  the  world's  wide  way, 
When  friends  are  far,  and  fond  ones  rove, 

How  powerful  she  to  wake  the  thought, 
And  start  the  tear  for  those  we  love  ! 

Who  watch,  with  us,  at  night's  pale  noon, 

And  gaze  upon  that  silent  moon. 

How  powerful,  too,  to  hearts  that  mourn, 

The  magic  of  that  moonlight  sky, 
To  bring  again  the  vanish'd  scenes, 

The  happy  eves  of  days  gone  by  ; 
Again  to  bring,  'mid  bursting  tears, 
The  loved,  the  lost  of  other  years. 

And  oft  she  looks,  that  silent  moon, 

On  lonely  eyes  that  wake  to  weep, 
In  dungeon  dark,  or  sacred  cell, 

Or  couch,  whence  pain  has  banish'd  sleep  : 
Oh  !  softly  beams  that  gentle  eye, 
On  those  who  mourn,  and  those  who  die. 

But  beam  on  whomsoe'er  she  will, 

And  fall  where'er  her  splendour  may, 
There's  pureness  in  her  chasten'd  light, 

There's  comfort  in  her  tranquil  ray  : 
What  power  is  hers  to  soothe  the  heart — 
What  power,  the  trembling  tear  to  start ! 

The  dewy  morn  let  others  love, 

Or  bask  them  in  the  noontide  ray  ; 
There's  not  an  hour  but  has  its  charm, 

From  dawning  light  to  dying  day : — 
But  oh  !  be  mine  a  fairer  boon — 
That  silent  moon,  that  silent  moon  ! 


116 


TO    A    CIGAR. 

BY  SAMUEL  LOW.— 1800. 

SWEET  antidote  to  sorrow,  toil,  and  strife, 
Charm  against  discontent  and  wrinkled  care. 
Who  knows  thy  power  can  never  know  despair  ; 

Who  knows  thee  not,  one  solace  lacks  of  life  : 
When  cares  oppress,  or  when  the  busy  day 

Gives  place  to  tranquil  eve,  a  single  puff 
Can  drive  even  want  and  lassitude  away, 

And  give  a  mourner  happiness  enough. 
From  thee  when  curling  clouds  of  incense  rise, 
They  hide  each  evil  that  in  prospect  lies  ; 
But  when  in  evanescence  fades  thy  smoke, 

Ah  !  what,  dear  sedative,  my  cares  shall  smother  ? 
If  thou  evaporate,  the  charm  is  broke, 

Till  I,  departing  taper,  light  another. 


HOPE. 


Y     J.     R.     DRAKE. 


SEE  through  yon  cloud  that  rolls  in  wrath, 
One  little  star  benignant  peep, 

To  light  along  their  trackless  path 
The  wanderers  of  the  stormy  deep. 


THE    LAKE    OF    CAYOSTEA.  117 

v/~  -,  '"   J*Vv'  ^vi 

And  thus,  oh  Hope  !  thy  lovely  form 

In  sorrow's  gloomy  night  shall  be 
The  sun  that  looks  through  cloud  and  storm 

Upon  a  dark  and  moonless  sea. 

When  heaven  is  all  serene  and  fair, 

Full  many  a  brighter  gem  we  meet ; 
'Tis  when  the  tempest  hovers  there, 

Thy  beam  is  most  divinely  sweet. 

The  rainbow,  when  the  sun  declines, 

Like  faithless  friend  will  disappear  ; 
Thy  light,  dear  star  !  more  brightly  shines 

When  all  is  wail  and  weeping  here. 

And  though  Aurora's  stealing  beam 

May  wake  a  morning  of  delight, 
'Tis  only  thy  consoling  gleam 

Will  smile  amid  affliction's  night. 


THE   LAKE    OF    CAYOSTEA 

BY     ROBERT     BARKER. 
Ob:    1831,  tf*.  27. 

THY  wave  has  ne'er  by  gondolier 
Been  dash'd  aside  with  flashing  oar, 

Nor  festive  train  to  music's  strain 
Performed  the  dance  upon  thy  shore. 


118  THE    AMERICAN   FLAG. 

But  there,  at  night,  beneath  the  light 
Of  silent  moon  and  twinkling  ray, 

The  Indian's  boat  is  seen  to  float, 
And  track  its  lonely  way. 

The  Indian  maid,  in  forest  glade, 

Of  flowers  that  earliest  grow, 
And  fragrant  leaves,  a  garland  weaves 

To  deck  her  warrior's  brow. 
And  when  away,  at  break  of  day, 

She  hies  her  to  her  shieling  dear, 
She  sings  so  gay  a  roundelay, 

That  echo  stops  to  hear. 

Would  it  were  mine  to  join  with  thine, 

And  dwell  for  ever  here, 
In  forest  wild  with  nature's  child, 

By  the  silent  Cayostea. 
My  joy  with  thee  would  ever  be 

Along  these  banks  to  roam ; 
And  fortune  take  beside  the  lake, 

Whose  clime  is  freedom's  home. 


THE   AMERICAN  FLAG 


BY   J.    R.    DRAKE. 


WHEN  Freedom  from  her  mountain  height 

Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 
She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 
And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there. 


THE    AMERICAN    FLAG.  119 

She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 
The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 
And  striped  its  pure  celestial  white. 
With  streakings  of  the  morning  light ; 
Then  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun 
She  called  her  eagle  bearer  down, 
And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 
The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land. 

Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud. 

Who  rear'st  aloft  thy  regal  form, 
To  hear  the  tempest  trumpings  loud 

And  see  the  lightning  lances  driven, 
When  strive  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 

And  rolls  the  thunder-drum  of  heaven, 
Child  of  the  sun  !  to  thee  'tis  given 

To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free, 
To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke, 
To  ward  away  the  battle  stroke, 
And  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar, 
Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war, 

The  harbingers  of  victory  ! 

Flag  of  the  brave  !  thy  folds  shall  fly, 

The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high, 
When  speaks  the  signal  trumpet  tone, 

And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on. 
Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet, 

Has  dimm'd  the  glistening  bayonet, 
Each  soldier  eye  shall  brightly  turn 

To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn  ; 
And  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 

Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance. 
And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 

Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle  shroud^ 


120  THE    AMERICAN    FLAG. 

And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall 

Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall ; 

Then  shall  thy  meteor  glances  glow, 
And  cowering  foes  shall  shrink  beneath 

Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 
That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 


Flag  of  the  seas  !  on  ocean  wave 

Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave ; 
When  death,  careering  on  the  gale, 

Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail, 
And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 

Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack, 
Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 

Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee, 
And  smile  to  see  thy  splendours  fly 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 


Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home  ! 

By  angel  hands  to  valour  given  ; 
Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 
For  ever  float  that  standard  sheet ! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before  us, 
With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er  us  ? 


121 


MORNING   HYMN. 

Genesis  i.  3. 

BY   C.   F.    HOFFMAN. 

"  LET  THERE  BE  LIGHT  !"    The  Eternal  spoke, 

And  from  the  abyss  where  darkness  rode 
The  earliest  dawn  of  nature  broke, 

And  light  around  creation  flow'd. 
The  glad  earth  smiled  to  see  the  day, 

The  first-born  day  came  blushing  in  ; 
The  young  day  smiled  to  shed  its  ray 

Upon  a  world  untouched  by  sin. 

"  Lst  there  be  light !"     O'er  heaven  and  earth, 

The  God  who  first  the  day-beam  pourd, 
Whispered  again  his  fiat  forth, 

And  shed  the  Gospel's  light  abroad. 
And,  like  the  dawn,  its  cheering  rays 

On  rich  and  poor  were  meant  to  fall, 
Inspiring  their  Redeemer's  praise 

In  lonely  cot  and  lordly  hall. 

Then  come,  when  in  the  Orient  first 

Flushes  the  signal  light  for  prayer ; 
Come  with  the  earliest  beams  that  burst 

From  God's  bright  throne  of  glory  there. 
Come  kneel  to  Him  who  through  the  night 

Hath  watched  above  thy  sleeping  soul, 
To  Him  whose  mercies,  like  his  light, 

Are  shed  abroad  from  pole  to  pole. 
16 


122 


BRONX. 

BY  J.   R.    DRAKE. 

I  SAT  me  down  upon  a  green  bank-side. 

Skirting  the  smooth  edge  of  a  gentle  river, 
Whose  waters  seemed  unwillingly  to  glide, 

Like  parting  friends  who  linger  while  they  sever  ; 
Enforced  to  go,  yet  seeming  still  unready, 
Backward  they  wind  their  way  in  many  a  wistful  eddy. 

Gray  o'er  my  head  the  yellow-vested  willow 

Ruffled  its  hoary  top  in  the  fresh  breezes, 
Glancing  in  light,  like  spray  on  a  green  billow, 

Or  the  fine  frost-work  which  young  winter  freezes ; 
When  first  his  power  in  infant  pastime  trying, 
Congeals  sad  autumn's  tears  on  the  dead  branches  lying. 

From  rocks  around  hung  the  loose  ivy  dangling, 

And  in  the  clefts  sumach  of  liveliest  green, 
Bright  ising-stars  the  little  beach  was  spangling, 

The  gold-cup  sorrel  from  his  gauzy  screen 
Shone  like  a  fairy  crown,  enchased  and  beaded, 
Left  on  some  morn,  when  light  flashed  in  their  eyes  unheeded. 

The  hum-bird  shook  his  sun-touched  wings  around, 

The  bluefinch  caroll'd  in  the  still  retreat ; 
The  antic  squirrel  capered  on  the  ground 

Where  lichens  made  a  carpet  for  his  feet : 
Through  the  transparent  waves,  the  ruddy  minkle 
Shot  up  in  glimmering  sparks  his  red  fin's  tiny  twinkle. 


BRONX.  123 

There  were  dark  cedars  with  loose  mossy  tresses 
White  powdered  dog-trees,  and  stiff  hollies  flaunting 

Gaudy  as  rustics  in  their  May-day  dresses, 
Blue  pelloret  from  purple  leaves  upslanting 

A  modest  gaze,  like  eyes  of  a  young  maiden 

Shining  beneath  dropt  lids  the  evening  of  her  wedding. 

The  breeze  fresh  springing  from  the  lips  of  morn, 
Kissing  the  leaves,  and  sighing  so  to  lose  'em, 

The  winding  of  the  merry  locust's  horn, 

The  glad  spring  gushing  from  the  rock's  bare  bosom  : 

Sweet  sights,  sweet  sounds,  all  sights,  all  sounds  excelling, 

Oh  !  'twas  a  ravishing  spot  formed  for  a  poet's 'dwelling. 

And  did  I  leave  thy  loveliness,  to  stand 

Again  in  the  dull  world  of  earthly  blindness  ? 

Pained  with  the  pressure  of  unfriendly  hands, 
Sick  of  smooth  looks,  agued  with  icy  kindness  ? 

Left  I  for  this  thy  shades,  where  none  intrude, 

To  prison  wandering  thought  and  mar  sweet  solitude  ? 

Yet  I  will  look  upon  thy  face  again, 

My  own  romantic  Bronx,  and  it  will  be 
A  face  more  pleasant  than  the  face  of  men. 

Thy  waves  are  old  companions,  I  shall  see 
A  well-remembered  form  in  each  old  tree, 
And  hear  a  voice  long  loved  in  thy  wild  minstrelsy. 


124 


THE  STORM-KING. 

BY   ROSWELL   PARK. 

THE  mist  descended  from  the  snow 

That  whiten'd  o'er  the  cliff; 
The  clouds  were  gather'd  round  its  brow, 
And  solemn  darkness  reign'd  below 

The  peak  of  Teneriffe. 

For  on  that  rocky  peak  and  high, 

Magnificent  and  lone, 
The  awful  Storm- King  of  the  sky, 
Beyond  the  reach  of  mortal  eye, 

Had  rear'd  his  cloudy  throne. 

By  him  the  raging  winds  unfurl'd, 

Swept  o'er  the  prostrate  land  ; 
And  thence,  above  the  affrighted  world, 
The  flashing  thunderbolts  were  hurl'd 

Forth  from  his  red  right  hand. — 

Uprising  from  his  cave  of  jet, 

While  mists  obscured  his  form, 
With  streaming  locks  and  vesture  wet, 
The  Spirit  of  the  ocean  met 

The  Spirit  of  the  storm. 

"  And  why  so  madly  dost  thou  dare, 

Proud  Spirit  of  the  sea, 
To  tempt  the  monarch  of  the  air, 
With  the  whirlwind's  rage  and  the  lightning's  glare  ? 

What  seekest  thou  of  me  ?" 


THE    STORM-KING.  125 

"  I  have  risen  afar  from  my  coral  caves, 

Where  the  pearls  are  sparkling  bright, 
To  roam  o'er  the  isles  I  have  girt  with  my  waves ; 
And  I  hurl  defiance  at  thee  and  thy  slaves, 

And  I  challenge  thee  here  to  the  fight !" 

"  Take  this  in  return  !"  and  the  thunderbolt  rush'd 

From  the  midst  of  a  cloud  of  fire ; 
The  tempest  forth  from  his  nostrils  gush'd, 
And  the  island  forest  his  footsteps  crushed, 

In  the  burning  of  his  ire. 

Now  fierce  o'er  the  waters  mad  hurricanes  boom, 

And  the  depths  of  the  ocean  uprend  ; 
Now  the  waves  lash  the  skies  with  their  torrents  of  foam, 
And  whirlwinds  and  billows  in  furious  gloom, 

Meet,  mingle,  and  fiercely  contend. 

But  the  monarch  of  ocean  spurns  his  thrall, 

And  evades  his  fierce  controul ; — 
Away  in  his  ice-clad  crystal  hall, 
He  still  reigns  absolute  monarch  of  all 

That  surrounds  his  frozen  pole. 

The  day  breaks  forth,  and  the  storm  is  past, — 

Again  are  the  elements  free  ; 
But  many  a  vessel  is  still  sinking  fast, 
And  many  a  mariner  rests  at  last, 

In  the  bosom  of  the  sea ! 


126 


SONG— ROSALIE   CLARE. 

BY   C.    F.    HOFFMAN. 

WHO  owns  not  she's  peerless — who  calls  her  not  fair — 
Who  questions  the  beauty  of  Rosalie  Clare  ? 
Let  him  saddle  his  courser  and  spur  to  the  field, 
And  though  coated  in  proof,  he  must  perish  or  yield ; 
For  no  gallant  can  splinter — no  charger  can  dare 
The  lance  that  is  couched  for  young  Rosalie  Clare. 

When  goblets  are  flowing,  and  wit  at  the  board 
Sparkles  high,  while  the  blood  of  the  red  grape  is  poured, 
And  fond  wishes  for  fair  ones  around  offered  up 
From  each  lip  that  is  wet  with  the  dew  of  the  cup, — - 
What  name  on  the  brimmer  floats  oftener  there, 
Or  is  whispered  more  warmly,  than  Rosalie  Clare? 

They  may  talk  of  the  land  of  the  olive  and  vine — 
Of  the  maids  of  the  Ebro,  the  Arno,  or  Rhine  ; — 
Of  the  Houris  that  gladden  the  East  with  their  smiles, 
Where  the  sea's  studded  over  with  green  summer  isles ; 
But  what  flower  of  far  away  clirne  can  compare 
With  the  blossom  of  ours — bright  Rosalie  Clare? 

Who  owns  not  she's  peerless — who  calls  her  not  fair  ? 
Let  him  meet  but  the  glances  of  Rosalie  Clare  ! 
Let  him  list  to  her  voice — let  him  gaze  on  her  form — 
And  if,  hearing  and  seeing,  his  soul  do  not  warm, 
Let  him  go  breathe  it  out  in  some  less  happy  air 
Than  that  which  is  blessed  by  sweet  Rosalie  Clare. 


127 


TO    A   PACKET    SHIP. 

'  VW ".**.  **';;**  "ffi'*' 

BY   ROSWELL   PARK. 

SPEED,  gallant  bark !  to  thy  home  o'er  the  wave  ! 
The  clouds  gather  dark,  and  the  mad  billows  rave ; — 
The  tempest  blows  o'er  thee,  and  scatters  the  spray 
That  lies  in  thy  wake,  as  thou  wingest  thy  way. 

Speed,  gallant  bark !  to  the  land  of  the  free, 
The  home  of  the  happy,  beyond  the  wide  sea ! 
Dear  friends  and  near  kindred,  the  lovely  and  fair, 
Are  waiting,  impatient,  to  welcome  thee  there  ! 

Speed,  gallant  bark !  there's  a  seat  at  the  board. 
Which  the  dame  and  the  damsel  reserve  for  their  lord ; 
And  the  fond-hearted  maiden  is  sighing  in  vain, 
To  welcome  her  long-absent  lover  again. 

Speed,  gallant  bark  !  richer  cargo  is  thine, 
Than  Brazilian  gem,  or  Peruvian  mine  ; 
And  the  treasures  thou  bearest,  thy  destiny  wait ; 
For  they,  if  thou  perish,  must  share  in  thy  fate. 

Speed,  gallant  bark !  though  the  land  is  afar, 
And  the  storm-clouds  above  thee  have  veil'd  every  star  ; 
The  needle  shall  guide  thee,  the  helm  shall  direct, 
And  the  God  of  the  tempest  thy  pathway  protect ! 

Speed,  gallant  bark  !  though  the  lightning  may  flash ; 
And  over  thy  deck  the  huge  surges  may  dash  ; — 
Thy  sails  are  all  reef 'd,  and  thy  streamers  are  high ; 
Unheeded  and  harmless  the  billows  roll  by ! 


128  MOONLIGHT. 

Speed,  gallant  bark  !  the  tornado  is  past ; 
Staunch  and  secure  thou  hast  weather'd  the  blast ; 
Now  spread  thy  full  sails  to  the  wings  of  the  morn. 
And  soon  the  glad  harbour  shall  greet  thy  return ! 


MOONLIGHT. 

BV   ROBERT   BARKER. 

How  dear  to  love  the  moonlight  hour. 

Beneath  the  calm  transparent  ether, 
It  seems  as  if  by  magic  power 

They  breathe  in  unison  together. 
When  forest  glen  and  fountain  bright 
Are  tinged  with  shades  of  mellow  light, 
And  every  earthly  sound  is  still 
Save  murmur  of  the  mountain  rill ; 
'T  is  then  to  lull  the  breast's  commotion, 
And  waken  every  soft  emotion, 
To  charm  from  sorrow's  cheek  her  tears, 

And  place  the  smiles  of  rapture  there, 
"  Celestial  music  of  the  spheres" 

Comes  floating  on  the  evening  air. 
'T  is  then  that  fancy  wings  her  flight 

Beyond  the  bounds  to  mortals  given ; 
To  regions  where  the  lamps  of  night 

Illume  the  path  which  leads  to  heaven. 
'T  is  then  she  holds  communion  sweet 

With  seraphs  round  the  eternal  throne, 
Where  long-departed  spirits  meet, 

To  worship  him  who  sits  thereon. 


SONG.  129 


'T  is  then  man  dreams  of  Paradise, 
If  aught  he  dreams  of  place  like  this, 
'T  is  then  he  breathes  the  crystal  air, 
Which  Peris  breathe  who  wander  there. 
And  sips  the  fount  of  Native  Love 
Found  no  where  but  in  heaven  above. 


SONG. 

BY   J.    R.    DRAKE. 

'Tis  not  the  beam  of  her  bright  blue  eye, 
Nor  the  smile  of  her  lip  of  rosy  dye, 
Nor  the  dark  brown  wreaths  of  her  glossy  hair, 
Nor  her  changing  cheek,  so  rich  and  rare. 
Oh  !  these  are  the  sweets  of  a  fairy  dream, 

The  changing  hues  of  an  April  sky  ; 
They  fade  like  dew  in  the  morning  beam, 

Or  the  passing  zephyr's  odour'd  sigh. 

'Tis  a  dearer  spell  that  bids  me  kneel, 
'Tis  the  heart  to  love,  and  the  soul  to  feel : 
'Tis  the  mind  of  light,  and  the  spirit  free, 
And  the  bosom  that  heaves  alone  for  me. 
Oh  !  these  are  the  sweets  that  kindly  stay 

From  youth's  gay  morning  to  age's  night ; 
When  beauty's  rainbow  tints  decay, 

Love's  torch  still  burns  with  a  holy  light. 
17 


130  LUTZOW'S    WILD    CHASE. 

Soon  will  the  bloom  of  the  fairest  fade. 
And  love  will  droop  in  the  cheerless  shade, 
Or  if  tears  should  fall  on  his  wing  of  joy, 
It  will  hasten  the  flight  of  the  laughing  boy. 
But  oh  !  the  light  of  the  constant  soul 

Nor  time  can  darken  nor  sorrow  dim ; 
Though  wo  may  weep  in  life's  mingled  bowl. 

Love  still  shall  hover  around  its  brim. 


LUTZOW'S    WILD    CHASE. 

[  Translated  from  the  German  of  Korner.] 

BY   ROSWELL    PARK. 

WHAT  gleams  from  yon  wood  in  the  splendour  of  day '? 

Hark  !  hear  its  wild  din  rushing  nearer  ! 
It  hither  approaches  in  gloomy  array, 
While  loud  sounding  horns  peal  their  blast  on  its  way, 

The  soul  overwhelming  with  terror  ! 
Those  swart  companions  you  view  in  the  race, — 
Those  are  Lutzow's  roving,  wild,  venturous  chase ! 

What  swiftly  moves  on  through  yon  dark  forest  glade, 

From  mountain  to  mountain  deploying  ? 
They  place  themselves  nightly  in  ambuscade, 
They  shout  the  hurrah,  and  they  draw  the  keen  blade, 

The  French  usurpers  destroying ! 
Those  swart  Yagers  bounding  from  place  to  place, — 
Those  are  Lutzow's  roving,  wild,  venturous  chase  ! 


LUTZOW'S    WILD    CHASE.  131 

Where,  midst  glowing  vines,  as  the  Rhine  murmurs  by, 

The  tyrant  securely  is  sleeping ; — 
They  swiftly  approach,  'neath  the  storm-glaring  sky  ; 
With  vigorous  arms  o'er  the  waters  they  ply  ; 

Soon  safe  on  his  island-shore  leaping ! 
Those  swarthy  swimmers  whose  wake  you  trace, 
Those  are  Liitzow's  roving,  wild,  venturous  chase  ! 

Whence  sweeps  from  yon  valley  the  battle's  loud  roar, 
Where  swords  in  thick  carnage  are  clashing  ? 

Fierce  horsemen  encounter,  'mid  lightnings  and  gore  ; 

The  spark  of  true  freedom  is  kindled  once  more, 
From  war's  bloody  altars  out-flashing  ! 

Those  horsemen  swart  who  the  combat  face, 

Those  are  Liitzow's  roving,  wild,  venturous  chase  ! 

Who  smile  their  adieu  to  the  light  of  the  sun, 

'Mid  fallen  foes  moaning  their  bravery  ? 
Death  creeps  o'er  their  visage, — their  labours  are  done ; — 
Their  valiant  hearts  tremble  not ; — victory's  won  ; 

Their  father-land  rescued  from  slavery  ! 
Those  swart  warriors  fallen  in  death's  embrace, 
Those  were  Liitzow's  roving,  wild,  venturous  chase  ! 

-. 
The  wild  German  Yagers, — their  glorious  careers 

Dealt  death  to  the  tyrant  oppressor  ! 
Then  weep  not,  dear  friends,  for  the  true  volunteers, 
When  the  morn  of  our  father-land's  freedom  an^pears ; 

Since  we  alone  died  to  redress  her. 
Our  mem'ry  transmitted,  no  time  shall  erase  ; — 
Those  were  Liitzow's  roving,  wild,  venturous  chase  ! 


132 


STANZAS. 

BY   JAMES  NACK. 

I  KNOW  that  thou  art  far  away, 

Yet  in  my  own  despite 
My  still  expectant  glances  stray 

Inquiring  for  thy  sight. 
Though  all  too  sure  that  thy  sweet  face 

Can  bless  no  glance  of  mine, 
At  every  turn,  in  every  place, 

My  eyes  are  seeking  thine. 

I  hope — how  vain  the  hope,  I  know — 

That  some  propitious  chance 
May  bring  thee  here  again  to  throw 

Thy  sweetness  on  my  glance. 
But,  loveliest  one,  where'er  thou  art, 

Whate'er  be  my  despair, 
Mine  eyes  will  seek  thee,  and  my  heart 

Will  love  thee  every  where. 


LINES. 

BY     WILLIAM    LEGGETT. 

[  Written  beneath  a  dilapidated  tower,  yet  standing  among  the  ruins  of  Carthage.} 

THOU  mouldering  pile,  that  hath  withstood 

The  silent  lapse  of  many  ages, 
The  earthquake's  shock,  the  storm,  the  flood, 

Around  whose  base  the  ocean  rages  ; 
Who  reared  thy  walls  that  proudly  brave 
The  tempest,  battle,  and  the  wave  ? 


LINES. 

Was  it  beneath  thy  ample  dome 
That  Marius  rested,  and  from  thee, 

When  he  had  lost  imperial  Rome, 
Learned  high  resolve  and  constancy  ? 

Thou  seem'st  to  mock  the  power  of  fate, 

And  well  might'st  teach  the  lesson  great. 

Perhaps  thy  vaulted  arch  hath  rung 
Of  yore,  with  laughter's  merry  shout, 

While  beauty  round  her  glances  flung 
To  cheer  some  monarch's  wassail  rout ; 

But  mirth  and  beauty  long  have  fled 

From  this  lone  City  of  the  Dead. 

Where  busy  thousands  6ft  have  trod 
Beneath  thy  mouldering  marble  brow, 

Wild  moss-grown  fragments  press  the  sod, 
Around  thee  all  is  silence  now. 

And  thus  the  breath  of  foul  decay 

Shall  melt  at  last  thy  form  away. 

Thou  desolate,  deserted  pile, 
Lone  vestage  of  departed  glory, 

Sadly  in  ruin  thou  seem'st  to  smile, 

While  baffled  time  flies  frowning  o'er  .thee, 

As  if  resolved  the  tale  to  tell 

Where  Carthage  stood,  and  how  it  fell. 

Midst  ruined  walls  thou  stand'st  alone, 
Around  thee  strewn  may  yet  be  seen 

The  broken  column,  sculptured  stone, 
And  relics  sad  of  what  hath  been. 

But  thou  alone  survivest  the  fall, 

Defying  Time,  dread  leveller  of  all. 


133 


134 


FADED   HOURS. 

BY   J.   R.   SUTERMINSTER. 

Ob.  1836:  «rf.  23. 

OH  !  for  my  bright  and  faded  hours 

When  life  was  like  a  summer  stream, 
On  whose  gay  banks  the  virgin  flowers 

Blush'd  in  the  morning's  rosy  beam ; 
Or  danced  upon  the  breeze  that  bare 

Its  store  of  rich  perfume  along, 
While  the  wood-robin  pour'd  on  air 

The  ravishing  delights  of  song. 

The  sun  look'd  from  his  lofty  cloud, 

While  flow'd  its  sparkling  waters  fair — 
And  went  upon  his  pathway  proud, 

Arid  threw  a  brighter  lustre  there  ; 
And  smiled  upon  the  golden  heaven, 

And  on  the  earth's  sweet  loveliness, 
Where  light,  and  joy,  and  song  were  given, 

The  glad  and  fairy  scene  to  bless  ! 

Ah  !  these  were  bright  and  joyous  hours, 

When  youth  awoke  from  boyhood's  dream, 
To  see  life's  Eden  dress'd  in  flowers, 

While  young  hope  bask'd  in  morning's  beam ! 
And  proffer'd  thanks  to  heaven  above, 

While  glow'd  his  fond  and  grateful  breast, 
Who  spread  for  him  that  scene  of  love 

And  made  him  so  supremely  blest ! 


THE  WIFE'S  SONG.  135 

That  scene  of  love !  —  where  hath  it  gone  ? 

Where  have  its  charms  and  beauty  sped  ? 
My  hours  of  youth,  that  o'er  me  shone  — 

Where  have  their  light  and  splendour  fled  ? 
Into  the  silent  lapse  of  years  — 

And  I  am  left  on  earth  to  mourn : 
And  I  am  left  to  drop  my  tears 

O'er  memory's  lone  and  icy  urn  ! 

Yet  why  pour  forth  the  voice  of  wail 

O'er  feeling's  blighted  coronal  ? 
Ere  many  gorgeous  suns  shall  fail, 

I  shall  be  gather'd  in  my  pall ; 
Oh,  my  dark  hours  on  earth  are  few  — 

My  hopes  are  crush'd,  my  heart  is  riven ;  — 
And  I  shall  soon  bid  life  adieu, 

To  seek  enduring  joys  in  heaven  ! 


THE   WIFE'S    SONG. 


BY   WILLIAM   LEGGETT. 


As  the  tears  of  the  even, 

Illumined  at  day 
By  the  sweet  light  of  heaven, 

Seem  gems  on  each  spray  ; 
So  gladness  to-morrow 

Shall  shine  on  thy  brow, 
The  more  bright  for  the  sorrow 

That  darkens  it  now. 


136  LAMENT. 


Yet  if  fortune,  believe  me, 

Have  evil  in  store. 
Though  each  other  deceive  thee, 

I'll  love  thee  the  more. 
As  ivy  leaves  cluster 

More  greenly  and  fair, 
When  winter  winds  bluster 

Round  trees  that  are  bare. 


LAMENT. 

BY     WILLIS     G.     CLARK, 

THERE  is  a  voice,  I  shall  hear  no  more — 
There  are  tones,  whose  music  for  me  is  o'er  ; 
Sweet  as  the  odours  of  spring  were  they, — 
Precious  and  rich — but  they  died  away ; 
They  came  like  peace  to  my  heart  and  ear — 
Never  again  will  they  murmur  here  ; 
They  have  gone  like  the  blush  of  a  summer  morn? 
Like  a  crimson  cloud  through  the  sunset  borne. 

There  were  eyes  that  late  were  lit  up  for  me, 

Whose  kindly  glance  was  a  joy  to  see  ; 

They  revealed  the  thoughts  of  a  trusting  heart, 

Untouched  by  sorrow,  untaught  by  art ; 

Whose  affections  were  fresh  as  a  stream  of  spring 

When  birds  in  the  vernal  branches  sing ; 

They  were  filled  with  love,  that  hath  passed  with  them, 

And  my  lyre  is  breathing  their  requiem. 


LAMENT.  137 

| 

I  remember  a  brow,  whose  serene  repose 
Seemed  to  lend  a  beauty  to  cheeks  of  rose  : 
And  lips,  I  remember,  whose  dewy  smile, 
As  I  mused  on  their  eloquent  power  the  while, 
Sent  a  thrill  to  my  bosom,  and  bless'd  my  brain 
With  raptures,  that  never  may  dawn  again  ; 
Amidst  musical  accents  those  smiles  were  shed — 
Alas  !  for  the  doom  of  the  early  dead  ! 

Alas  !  for  the  clod  that  is  resting  now 

On  those  slumbering  eyes — on  that  faded  brow ; 

Wo  for  the  cheek  that  hath  ceased  to  bloom — 

For  the  lips  that  are  dumb,  in  the  noisome  tomb ; 

Their  melody  broken,  their  fragrance  gone, 

Their  aspect  cold  as  the  Parian  stone  ; 

Alas  for  the  hopes  that  with  thee  have  died — 

Oh  loved  one  ! — would  I  were  by  thy  side  ! 

Yet  the  joy  of  grief  it  is  mine  to  bear ; 
I  hear  thy  voice  in  the  twilight  air  ; 
Thy  smile,  of  sweetness  untold,  I  see 
When  the  visions  of  evening  are  borne  to  me ; 
Thy  kiss  on  my  dreaming  lip  is  warm — 
My  arm  embraceth  thy  graceful  form  ; 
I  wake  in  a  world  that  is  sad  and  drear, 
To  feel  in  my  bosom — thou  art  not  here. 

Oh  !  once  the  summer  with  thee  was  bright ; 
The  day,  like  thine  eyes,  wore  a  holy  light. 
There  was  bliss  in  existence  when  thou  wert  nigh, 
There  was  balm  in  the  evening's  rosy  sigh  ; 
Then  earth  was  an  Eden,  and  thou  its  guest — 
A  Sabbath  of  blessings  was  in  my  breast ; 
My  heart  was  full  of  a  sense  of  love, 
Likest  of  all  things  to  heaven  above. 

18 


138 


LINES. 


Now,  thou  art  gone  to  that  voiceless  hall 
Where  my  budding  raptures  have  perished  all ; 
To  that  tranquil  and  solemn  place  of  rest, 
Where  the  earth  lies  damp  on  the  sinless  breast ; 
Thy  bright  locks  all  in  the  vault  are  hid — 
Thy  brow  is  concealed  by  the  coffin  lid  ;— 
All  that  was  lovely  to  me  is  there, 
Mournful  is  life,  and  a  load  to  bear  ! 


LINES 

[  Written  on  a  pane  of  glass  in  the  house  of  a  friend,.} 


BY   WILLIAM   LEGGETT. 


As  playful  boys  by  ocean's  side 

Upon  its  margin  trace, 
Some  frail  memorial  which  the  tide 

Returning  must  efface  ; 
Thus  I  upon  this  brittle  glass 

These  tuneless  verses  scrawl, 
That  they,  when  I  away  shall  pass, 

May  thought  of  me  recall. 

The  waves  that  beat  upon  the  strand 

Wash  out  the  schoolboy's  line, 
As  soon  some  rude  or  careless  hand 

May  shiver  those  of  mine. 
But  though  what  I  have  written  here 

In  thousand  fragments  part, 
I  trust  my  name  will  still  be  dear, 

And  treasured  in  the  heart. 


139 


THE   SEPULCHRE    OF   DAVID. 


BY   WILLIAM   L.    STONE. 

"  As  for  Herod,  he  had  spent  vast  sums  about  the  cities,  both  without  and 
within  his  own  kingdom  :  and  as  he  had  before  heard  that  Hyrcanus,  who  had 
been  king  before  him,  had  opened  David's  sepulchre,  and  taken  out  of  it  three 
thousand  talents  of  silver,  and  that  there  was  a  greater  number  left  behind,  and 
indeed  enough  to  suffice  all  his  wants,  he  had  a  great  while  an  intention  to  make 
the  attempt ;  and  at  this  time  he  opened  that  sepulchre  by  night  and  went  into 
it,  and  endeavoured  that  it  should  not  be  at  all  known  in  the  city,  but  he  took 
only  his  most  faithful  friends  with  him.  As  for  any  money,  he  found  none,  as 
Hyrcanus  had  done,  but  that  furniture  of  gold,  and  those  precious  goods  that 
were  laid  up  there,  all  which  he  took  away.  However,  he  had  a  great  desire  to 
make  diligent  search,  and  to  go  farther  in,  even  as  far  as  the  very  bodies  of 
David  and  Solomon  ;  where  two  of  his  guards  were  slain  by  a  flame  that  burst 
out  upon  those  that  went  in,  as  the  report  was.  So  he  was  severely  affrighted, 
and  went  out  and  built  a  propitiatory  monument  of  that  fright  he  had  been  in, 
and  this  of  white  stone,  at  the  mouth  of  the  sepulchre,  and  that  at  a  great 
expense  also." — Josephus. 

HIGH  on  his  throne  of  state, 

A  form  of  noblest  mould, 
The  Hebrew  monarch  sate, 

All  glorious  to  behold. 

With  purest  gold  inwrought, 

Full  many  a  sparkling  gem, 
From  distant  India  brought, 

Enriched  his  diadem. 

A  crystal  mirror  bright, 

Beneath  the  canopy, 
Shot  back  in  silvery  light 

The  monarch's  panoply  ! 


140  THE    SEPULCHRE    OF    DAVID. 

All  round  the  lofty  halls, 
Rich  tapestries  of  gold 

Hung  from  the  glittering  walls, 
Jn  many  an  ample  fold. 

And  breathing  sculptures  there 
In  living  beauty  stood, 

Borne  by  the  monarch's  care 
From  o'er  the  J^gean  flood. 

Dipt  in  the  rainbow's  dyes, 
Apelles's  magic  hand, 

To  please  the  wondering  eyes 
Of  Judah's  haughty  land, 

In  liquid  colours  bright, 
And  traced  with  matchless  care, 

Had  left,  in  glorious  light, 
Its  richest  beauties  there  ! 

The  silver  lamps  by  day, 

Hung  massive,  rich,  and  bright ; 

And  from  the  galleries  gay 
Shone  brilliantly  by  night. 

And  by  the  monarch's  side, 
His  guards,  a  noble  band, 

Arrayed  in  regal  pride, 

In  burnished  armour  stand. 

Proud  chiefs  and  ladies  fair, 

Swept  the  broad  courts  along : — 

In  pleasures  mingled  there, — 
A  gay  and  gallant  throng ! 


THE    SEPULCHRE    OF    DAVID.  141 

Apollo's  tuneful  choir, 

And  Koran's  sons  of  song, 
With  psaltery,  harp,  and  lyre, 

Were  mingled  in  the  throng.* 

And  from  each  trembling  string, 

Sweet  sounds  of  music  stole  ; 
Gentle  as  Zephyr's  wing, 

The  tuneful  numbers  roll. 

Beyond  the  portals  wide, 

Beneath  the  sylvan  bower, 
Cool  founts,  in  sparkling  pride, 

Send  forth  their  silvery  shower. 

The  flowerets  gay  and  wild, 

In  beauty  bloomed  not  less, 
Than  erst  when  Eden  smiled, 

In  pristine  loveliness. 

And  through  the  gorgeous  halls 

Rich  odours  filled  the  air, 
Sweet  as  the  dew  that  falls 

On  Araby  the  fair  ! 


*  It  may  perhaps,  to  some,  appear  incongruous  thus  to  mingle  Heathen  musi 
cians  among  the  Hebrews  ;  but  it  is  believed  the  incongruity  will  disappear  on 
a  moment's  reflection  upon  the  history  and  character  of  Herod  the  Great.  His 
expeditions  to  Rome,  Greece,  and  Syria,  &c.,  were  frequent,  and  he  was  not 
scrupulous  in  the  introduction  of  games,  sports,  and  gorgeous  customs  of  the 
oriental  nations,  to  heighten  the  effect  of  his  own  pageants.  He  built  and  rebuilt 
divers  Heathen  temples,  and  among  them  the  Temple  of  Apollo,  in  Greece. 
Some  historians  deny  that  he  was  a  Jew  ;  but  say  that  he  was  originally  the 
guardian  of  the  Temple  of  Apollo  at  Askalon,  who,  having  been  taken  prisoner 
among  the  Idumeans,  afterwards  turned  Jew. 


142 


THE    SEPULCHRE    OF    DAVID. 

All  that  could  foster  pride, 
All  that  could  banish  care, 

Was  gathered  by  his  side, 
And  richly  lavished  there. 

Lost  to  the  splendid  show, 
The  monarch's  restless  mind 

Darkened  an  anxious  brow, 
Which  furrows  deep  had  lined. 

He  rose  and  left  the  hall, — 

The  night  was  drear  and  wild — 

Above  the  embattled  wall 

Tempestuous  clouds  were  piled. 

Deep  in  the  deeper  gloom, 
He  held  his  sullen  way — 

To  David's  hallowed  tomb — 
To  where  his  ashes  lay. 

The  haughty  monarch  came, — 
Earth  trembled  at  his  tread — 

With  sacrilegious  aim 
To  rob  the  royal  dead. 

No  treasures  found  he  there, 
Nor  precious  gems,  nor  gold — 

The  walls  were  damp  and  bare — 
The  region  drear  and  cold. 

He  cast  his  anxious  eye 

Where  slept  great  David's  son, 
Where  Wisdom's  ashes  lie, 

The  peerless  Solomon ! 


THE    SEPULCHRE    OF    DAVID.  143 

He  raised  his  ruthless  arm 

Against  the  low-arched  wall — 
While  wild  and  dread  alarm 

Rang  through  the  vaulted  hall. 

Loud  on  the  monarch's  ear 

Broke  the  hoarse  thunder's  crash — 

And  blazed  around  the  bier 
The  vivid  lightning's  flash. 

Death  came  upon  the  blast ; 

As  by  the  lurid  light 
They  saw  that  he  had  passed, 

And  triumphed  in  his  might : 

For  on  the  chilly  ground. 

Inanimate  as  clay, 
The  troubled  monarch  found 

His  favourite  captains  lay. 

Aghast  and  pale  he  fled, — 

And  shook  through  every  limb — 
Cold  drops  rolled  down  his  head, 

Lest  death  should  follow  him  ! 

He  raised  a  marble  fane 

Upon  the  hallowed  spot, 
But  ne'er,  O  ne'er  again 

Could  that  night  be  forgot ! 

And  oft  in  after  years 

He  woke  in  wild  affright, 
And  wailed,  with  scalding  tears, 

The  deed  of  that  dread  night ! 


144 


WOMAN. 

BY    WILLIAM     LEGGETT. 

No  star  in  yonder  sky  that  shines 

Can  light  like  woman's  eye  impart. 
The  earth  holds  not  in  all  its  mines 

A  gem  so  rich  as  woman's  heart. 
Her  voice  is  like  the  music  sweet 

Poured  out  from  airy  harp  alone. 
Like  that  when  storms  more  loudly  beat, 

It  yields  a  clearer — richer  tone. 

And  woman's  love's  a  holy  light 

That  brighter  burns  for  aye, 
Years  cannot  dim  its  radiance  bright, 

Nor  even  falsehood  quench  its  ray. 
But  like  the  star  of  Bethlehem 

Of  old,  to  Israel's  shepherds  given, 
It  marshals  with  its  steady  flame 

The  erring  soul  of  man  to  heaven. 


RHYME    AND    REASON 

AN    APOLOGUE. 


BY     G.     P.     MORRI 


T  vvo  children,  "  once  upon  a  time," 

In  the  summer  season, 
Woke  to  life — the  one  was  Rhyme, 

The  other's  name  was  Reason. 
Sweet  Poesy  enraptured  prest 
The  blooming  infants  to  her  breast. 


RHYME    AND    REASON.  145 

Reason's  face  and  form  to  see 

Made  her  heart  rejoice  ; 
Yet  there  was  more  of  melody 

In  Rhyme's  delicious  voice  : 
But  both  were  beautiful  and  fair, 
And  pure  as  mountain  stream  and  air. 

As  the  boys  together  grew, 

Happy  fled  their  hours — 
Grief  or  care  they  never  knew 

In  the  Paphian  bowers. 
See  them  roaming,  hand  in  hand, 
The  pride  of  all  the  choral  band. 

Music  with  harp  of  golden  strings, 

Love  with  bow  and  quiver, 
Airy  sprites  on  radiant  wings, 

Nymphs  of  wood  and  river, 
Joined  the  Muses'  constant  song 
As  Rhyme  and  Reason  pass'd  along. 

But  the  scene  was  changed — the  boys 

Left  their  native  soil — 
Rhyme's  pursuit  was  idle  joys, 

Reason's  manly  toil. 
Soon  Rhyme  was  starving  in  a  ditch, 
While  Reason  grew  exceeding  rich. 

Since  that  dark  and  fatal  hour 

When  the  brothers  parted, 
Reason  has  had  wealth  and  power — 
Rhyme's  poor  and  broken-hearted. 
And  now,  on  bright  or  stormy  weather, 
They  twain  are  seldom  seen  together. 
19 


146 


AH   NO!     AH   NO! 

To  a  Favourite  Child. 
£ 

BY   JAMES   NACK. 

IN  life,  perhaps,  thou  hast  only  trod 

As  yet  in  a  path  as  soft  and  sweet 
As  the  flowerets  wreathed  on  a  verdant  sod, 

Which  bend  to  the  pressure  of  delicate  feet. 
In  the  path  thou  hast  only  begun  to  tread, 

Perhaps  no  thorn  has  betrayed  its  sting ; 
And  the  clouds  that  brood  there  too  oft  have  fled, 

By  innocence  chased  on  her  snow-white  wing : 
For  often  a  paradise  seems  to  attend 

Our  earliest  steps  in  this  world  below ; 
But  ah  !  will  that  paradise  bloom  to  the  end  ? 

Stern  destiny  answers,  "  Ah  No  !  Ah  No !" 

The  tree  with  verdure  adorns  the  shore 

While  the  laving  spray  at  its  foot  is  thrown  ; 
But  the  waves  roll  on  to  return  no  more, 

And  the  tree  stands  withering  all  alone. 
Each  friend  of  our  early  years  is  a  wave 

In  the  sea  of  joy  we  are  flourishing  by ; 
But  they  roll  away  to  the  gulf  of  the  grave, 

And  our  hearts  in  loneliness  withering  sigh. 
And  such  is  the  doom  I  must  bear  —  for  now, 

While  yet  in  my  boyhood  I  find  it  so  — 
But  never,  dear  cherub,  may  heaven  allow 

Such  doom  to  await  thee,  Ah  No  !  Ah  No  ! 


147 


A  HEALTH. 

BY   MISS   ELIZABETH   C.    CLINCH. 

Ob.  1832  :  a*.  17. 

FILL  high  the  cup  !  —  the  young  and  gay 

Are  met  with  bounding  hearts  to-night ; 
And  sunny  smiles  around  us  play, 

And  eyes  are  sparkling  bright : 
Let  wit  and  song  the  hours  beguile, 

But  yet,  amid  this  festal  cheer, 
Oh,  let  us  pause  to  think  awhile 

Of  him  who  is  not  here. 

Fill  high  the  cup  !  —  yet  ere  its  brim 

One  young  and  smiling  lip  has  pressed, 
Oh,  pledge  each  sparkling  drop  to  him 

Now  far  o'er  ocean's  breast ! 
The  cordial  wish  each  lip  repeats, 

By  every  heart  is  echoed  here ; 
For  none  within  this  circle  beats, 

To  whom  he  is  not  dear. 

A  sudden  pause  in  festive  glee  — 

What  thought  hath  hushed  the  thought  of  mirth, 
Hath  checked  each  heart's  hilarity, 

And  given  to  sadness  birth  ? 
O  !  read  it  in  the  shades  that  steal 

Across  each  animated  brow ; 
The  wish  none  utters,  yet  all  feel, 

"  Would  he  were  with  us  now !" 


148  A    HEALTH. 

Yet  chase  away  each  vain  regret, 

And  let  each  heart  be  gay ; 
Trust  me,  the  meeting  hour  shall  yet 

Each  anxious  thought  repay. 
Is  not  his  spirit  with  us  now  ?• 

Yes  !  wheresoe'er  his  footsteps  roam, 
The  wanderer's  yearning  heart  can  know 

No  resting-place  —  but  home  ! 

Then  smile  again,  and  let  the  song 

Pour  forth  its  music  sweet  and  clear — 
What  magic  to  those  notes  belong 

Which  thus  chain  every  ear  ! 
Soft  eyes  are  filled  with  tears— what  spell 

So  suddenly  hath  called  them  there  ? 
That  strain — ah,  yes  !  we  know  it  well ; 

It  is  his  favourite  air. 

With  every  note  how  forcibly 

Return  the  thoughts  of  other  days  ! 
The  shaded  brow,  the  drooping  eye, 

Are  present  to  our  gaze. 
With  all  around  his  looks  are  blent ; 

His  form,  is  it  not  gliding  there  ? 
And  was  it  not  his  voice  which  sent 

That  echo  on  the  air  ? 

One  wish,  with  cordial  feeling  fraught, 

Breathe  we  for  him  ere  yet  we  part, 
That  for  each  high  and  generous  thought 

That  animates  his  heart, 
That  Power  which  gives  us  happiness, 

A  blessing  on  his  head  would  pour  ! 
Oh  !  could  affection  wish  him  less  ? 

Yet,  could  we  ask  for  more  ? 


149 


A    HYMN. 

BY    DAVID    S.    BOGART. — 1791. 

ALMIGHTY  King,  who  reign'st  above, 
Thou  art  the  source  of  purest  love  ; 
The  splendid  heavens  thy  glories  show, 
Thy  wisdom  shines  in  all  below  ; 
Seraphs  before  thee  humbly  fall, 
Acknowledge  thee  supreme  o'er  all ; 
And,  wrapt  in  high  transporting  joy, 
Thy  attributes  their  thoughts  employ. 
Shall  mortals,  then,  refuse  to  join 
In  works  so  heavenly  and  divine, 
Mortals  who  live  and  move  in  thee, 
And  thy  continual  goodness  see  ; 
Thou  God  of  Grace,  make  it  my  choice 
In  praising  thee,  to  lend  my  voice  ; 
Implant  thy  fear,  infuse  thy  balm, 
And  make  my  troubled  soul  all  calm  ; 
Teach  me  the  duty  of  my  life, 
Preserve  me  from  unhappy  strife, 
Conduct  me  safe  through  all  my  days, 
And  keep  me  in  thy  peaceful  ways. 
When  time  is  done,  and  death  draws  nigh, 
Then  leave  me  not  alone  to  sigh  ; 
Afford  thy  grace,  and  cheer  my  heart, 
And,  sure  of  heaven,  let  me  depart. 


150 


REMINISCENCES. 

BY   GEORGE   D.   STRONG. 

OH,  who  would  flee  the  melody 

Of  woodland,  grove,  and  stream — 
The  hoar  cliff  pencill'd  on  the  sky 

By  morning's  virgin  beam  ; 
To  wander  'mid  the  busy  throng 

That  threads  each  city's  street, 
Where  cank'ring  care  and  folly's  glare 

In  unblest  union  meet  ? 

Emilia  !  o'er  the  fleeting  hours 

Thy  smile  once  bathed  in  light, 
Fond  memory  hovers  pensively, 

And  joins  them  in  their  flight ; 
And  lovelier  far  than  sunset's  glow, 

By  rainbow  beauties  spann'd, 
Comes  o'er  my  soul  the  joys  we  stole 

When  first  I  press'd  thy  hand. 

The  south  wind,  on  its  joyous  way, 

Came  fraught  with  balmier  breath, 
And  frolic  life,  in  thousand  forms, 

Laugh'd  at  the  conqueror  Death  ! 
Sweet  Echo,  from  the  sparry  caves, 

Re-tuned  the  shepherd's  song  ; 
And  bird  and  bee,  in  reckless  glee, 

Pour'd  melody  along. 

The  wind-stirr'd  grove  still  prints  its  shade 

Upon  the  streamlet's  breast, 
The  red  bird,  on  the  chesnut  bough, 
Re-builds  its  fairy  nest ; 


EL 


EGIAC    LINES.  151 


But  through  the  thicket's  leafy  screen 

Fancy  alone  can  trace 
The  sparkling  eye — the  vermeil  dye 

That  mantled  o'er  thy  face. 

Though  since  that  hour,  upon  my  path 

Are  graven  hopes  and  fears, 
And  transient  smiles,  like  April  beams, 

Have  gilded  sorrow's  tears ; 
From  those  flushed  hopes  and  feverish  joys, 

My  soul  with  rapture  flies 
To  the  sweet  grove,  where  faith  and  love 

Beamed  from  Emilia's  eyes  ! 

Then  woo  me  not  to  sculptured  halls, 

Where  pride  and  beauty  throng ; 
Far  lovelier  is  my  mountain -home, 

The  wild- wood  paths  among ; 
And  though  the  hopes  by  boyhood  nursed 

Have  vanish'd  like  the  dew, 
In  Memory's  light  they  bless  my  sight 

With  charms  for  ever  new. 


ELEGIAC    LINES. 

BY    THE    LATE   GEN.   J.    MORTON. 

WHILE  you,  my  friend,  with  tearful  eye, 
These  soft  elegiac  lines  read  o'er, 

And  while  you  heave  the  tender  sigh 
For  lov'd  Amanda  now  no  more. 


152  A    SONG    OF    MAY. 

This  lesson  from  her  tear-dew'd  urn, 

Where  conscious  worth,  where  virtue  bleeds, 

This  lesson  from  Amanda  learn, — 

That  death,  nor  worth,  nor  virtue  heeds. 

That  he  alike  his  ruthless  reign 
Does  o'er  each  age,  each  sex,  extend, 

That  he  ne'er  heeds  the  lover's  pain, 
Ne'er  heeds  the  anguish  of  a  friend. 

But  in  the  height  of  Beauty's  bloom, 
Each  dear  connexion  of  the  heart, 

He  points  them  to  the  gloomy  tomb, 
He  bids  them — and  they  must  depart. 


A  SONG   OF   MAY. 

BY    W.    G.    CLARK. 

THE  Spring's  scented  buds  all  around  me  are  swelling  — 

There  are  songs  in  the  stream — there  is  health  in  the  gale ; 
A  sense  of  delight  in  each  bosom  is  dwelling, 

As  float  the  pure  day-dreams  o'er  mountain  and  vale ; 
The  desolate  reign  of  old  winter  is  broken  — 

The  verdure  is  fresh  upon  every  tree ; 
Of  Nature's  revival  the  charm,  —  and  a  token 

Of  love,  oh  thou  Spirit  of  Beauty  !  to  thee. 


A   SONG    OF   MAY.  153 

The  sun  looketh  forth  from  the  halls  of  the  morning, 

And  flushes  the  clouds  that  begirt  his  career ; 
He  welcomes  the  gladness  and  glory,  returning 

To  rest  on  the  promise  and  hope  of  the  year. 
He  fills  with  rich  light  all  the  balm-breathing  flowers  — 

He  mounts  to  the  zenith  and  laughs  on  the  wave ; 
He  wakes  into  music  the  green  forest-bowers, 

And  gilds  the  gay  plains  which  the  broad  rivers  lave. 

The  young  bird  is  out  on  his  delicate  pinion  — 

He  timidly  sails  in  the  infinite  sky ; 
A  greeting  to  May,  and  her  fairy  dominion, 

He  pours,  on  the  west- wind's  fragrant  sigh : 
Around,  above,  there  are  peace  and  pleasure  — 

The  woodlands  are  singing  —  the  heaven  is  bright; 
The  fields  are  unfolding  their  emerald  treasure, 

And  man's  genial  spirit  is  soaring  in  light. 

Alas,  for  my  weary  and  care-haunted  bosom !  — 

The  spells  of  the  spring-time  arouse  it  no  more ; 
The  song  in  the  wild- wood  —  the  sheen  of  the  blossom  — 

The  fresh-welling  fountain,  —  their  magic  is  o'er  ! 
When  I  list  to  the  streams  —  when  I  look  on  the  flowers, 

They  tell  of  the  past  with  so  mournful  a  tone, 
That  I  call  up  the  throngs  of  my  long-vanished  hours, 

And  sigh  that  their  transports  are  over  and  gone. 

From  the  wide-spreading  earth  —  from  the  limitless  heaven, 

There  have  vanished  an  eloquent  glory  and  gleam ; 
To  my  veil'd  mind  no  more  is  the  influence  given, 

Which  coloureth  life  with  the  hues  of  a  dream : 
The  bloom-purpled  landscape  its  loveliness  keepeth  — 

I  deem  that  a  light  as  of  old  gilds  the  wave ;  — 
But  the  eye  of  my  spirit  in  heaviness  sleepeth, 

Or  sees  but  my  youth,  and  the  visions  it  gave. 

20 


154  A   SONG   OF   MAY. 

Yet  it  is  not  that  age  on  my  years  hath  descended  — 

'T  is  not  that  its  snow-wreaths  encircle  my  brow ; 
But  the  newness  and  sweetness  of  Being  are  ended  — 

I  feel  not  their  love-kindling  witchery  now : 
The  shadows  of  death  o'er  my  path  have  been  sweeping  — 

There  are  those  who  have  loved  me,  debarred  from  the  day ; 
The  green  turf  is  bright  where  in  peace  they  are  sleeping, 

And  on  wings  of  remembrance  my  soul  is  away. 

It  is  shut  to  the  glow  of  this  present  existence  — 

It  hears,  from  the  past,  a  funereal  strain  ; 
And  it  eagerly  turns  to  the  high-seeming  distance, 

Where  the  last  blooms  of  earth  will  be  garnered  again  ; 
Where  no  mildew  the  soft,  damask-rose  cheek  shall  nourish  — 

Where  Grief  bears  no  longer  the  poisonous  sting; 
Where  pitiless  Death  no  dark  sceptre  can  flourish, 

Or  stain  with  his  blight  the  luxuriant  spring. 

It  is  thus,  that  the  hopes,  which  to  others  are  given, 

Fall  cold  on  my  heart  in  this  rich  month  of  May; 
I  hear  the  clear  anthems  that  ring  through  the  heaven  — 

I  drink  the  bland  airs  that  enliven  the  day ; 
And  if  gentle  Nature,  her  festival  keeping, 

Delights  not  my  bosom,  ah !  do  not  condemn ;  — 
O'er  the  lost  and  the  lovely  my  spirit  is  weeping, 

For  my  heart's  fondest  raptures  are  buried  with  them. 


155 


ON  READING  VIRGIL. 

BY   MRS.   ANN  E.   BLEECKER. 

Written  in  1778. 

Now  cease  these  tears,  lay  gentle  Yirgil  by, 

Let  recent  sorrows  dim  thy  pausing  eye  ; 

Shall  ^Eneas  for  lost  Creusa  mourn, 

And  tears  be  wanting  on  Abella's  urn  ? 

Like  him,  I  lost  my  fair  one  in  my  flight 

From  cruel  foes,  and  in  the  dead  of  night. 

Shall  he  lament  the  fall  of  Ilion's  tow'rs, 

And  we  not  mourn  the  sudden  ruin  of  ours  ? 

See  York  on  fire  —  while,  borne  by  winds,  each  flame 

Projects  its  glowing  sheet  o'er  half  the  main, 

The  affrighted  savage,  yelling  with  amaze, 

From  Allegany  sees  the  rolling  blaze. 

Far  from  these  scenes  of  horror,  in  the  shade 

I  saw  my  aged  parent  safe  conveyed  ; 

Then  sadly  followed  to  the  friendly  land 

With  my  surviving  infant  by  the  hand  : 

No  cumbrous  household  gods  had  I,  indeed, 

To  load  my  shoulders  and  my  flight  impede ; 

Protection  from  such  impotence  who'd  claim? 

My  Gods  took  care  of  me  —  not  I  of  them. 

The  Trojan  saw  Anchises  breathe  his  last 

When  all  domestic  dangers  he  had  passed ; 

So  my  lov'd  parent,  after  she  had  fled, 

Lamented,  perish'd  on  a  stranger's  bed: 

—  He  held  his  way  o'er  the  Cerulian  main, 

But  I  returned  to  hostile  fields  again. 


156 


THE  LAST  PRAYER  OF  MARY,  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS. 

BY   W.   G.    CLARK. 

"  O  Domini  Deus  speravi  in  te, 
O  caru  mi  Jesu  nunc  libera  me  : 
In  dura  catena,  in  misera  pena, 

Desidera  te — 

Languendo,  gemando,  et  genufiectendo, 
Adoro,  imploro,  ut  liberas  me  !"* 

IT  was  the  holy  twilight  hour,  when  clouds  of  crimson  glide 
Along  the  cairn  blue  firmament,  hushed  in  the  evening  tide ; 
When  the  peasant's  cheerful  song  was  hushed,  by  every  hill 

and  glen, 
When  the  city's  voice  stole  faintly  out,  and  died  the  hum  of 

men ; 
And  as  Night's  sombre  shade  came  down  o'er  Day's  resplen- 

dant  eye, 

A  faded  face,  from  prison  cell,  gazed  out  upon  the  sky ; 
For  to  that  face  the  glad,  bright  sun  of  earth  for  aye  had  set, 
And  the  last  time  had  come,  to  mark  eve's  starry  coronet. 

Oh,  who  can  paint  the  bitter  thoughts  that  o'er  her  spirit  stole, 
As  her  pale  lips  gave  utterance  to  feeling's  deep  controul — 
When  shadowed  from   life's  vista  back,  throng'd  'mid  her 

bursting  tears. 

The  phantasies  of  early  hope— dreams  of  departed  years  ; 
When  Pleasure's  light  was  sprinkled,  and  silver  voices  flung 
Their  rich  and  echoing  cadences  her  virgin  hours  among — 
When  there  came  no  shadow  o'er  her  brow,  no  tear  to  dim 

her  eye, 
When  there  frown'd  no  cloud  of  sorrow  in  her  being's  festal 

sky. 

*  These  lines,  so  musical  in  the  original,  and  susceptible  of  equally  melo 
dious  translation,  were  penned  by  the  unfortunate  Mary  a  few  hours  before 
her  execution. 


THE  LAST  PRAYER  OF  MARY,  QUEEN  OP  SCOTS.        157 

Perchance  at  that  lone  hour  the  thought  of  early  visions 

came, 

Of  the  trance  that  touched  her  lip  with  song  at  Love's  mys 
terious  flame ; 
When  she  listened  to  the  low-breathed  tones  of  him  the  idol 

one, 

Who  shone  in  her  mind's  imagings  first  ray  of  pleasure's  sun  ; 
Perchance  the  walk  in  evening's  hour,  the  impassion'd  kiss 

and  vow — 
The  warm  tear  kindling  on  the  cheek,  the  smile  upon  the 

brow: 
But  they  came  like  flowers  that  wither,  and  the  light  of  all 

had  fled, 
Like  a  hue  from  April's  pinion  o'er  earth's  budding  bosom 

shed. 

And  thus  as  star  came  after  star  into  the  boundless  heaven, 
Were  her  free  thoughts  and  eloquent  in  pensive  numbers 

given ; 
They  were  the  offerings  of  a  heart  where  grief  had  long  held 

sway, 
And  now  the  night,  the  hour  had  come,  to  give  her  feelings 

way; 

It  was  the  last  dim  night  of  life — the  sun  had  sunk  to  rest, 
And  the  blue  twilight  haze  had  crept  on  the  far  mountain's 

breast ; 
And  thus,  as  in  her  saddened  heart  the  tide  of  love  grew 

strong, 
Poured  her  meek,  quiet  spirit  forth  this  flood  of  mournful 

song : 

"  The  shades  of  evening  gather  now  o'er  the  mysterious  earth, 
The  viewless  winds  are  whispering  their  strains  of  breezy 

mirth ; 

The  yellow  moon  hath  come  to  shed  a  flood  of  glory  round 
On  the  silence  of  this  calm  repose,  the  beauty  of  the  ground ; 


158        THE  LAST  PRAYER  OF  MARY,  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS. 

And  in  the  free,  sweet  gales  that  sweep  along  my  prison 

bar, 

Seem  borne  the  soft,  deep  harmonies  of  every  kindly  star  ; 
I  see  the  blue  streams  dancing  in  the  mild  and  chastened 

light, 
And  the  gem-lit  fleecy  clouds  that  steal  along  the  brow  of 

night. 

"  Oh,  must  I  leave  existence  now,  while  life  is  in  its  spring — 
While  Joy  should  cheer  my  pilgrimage  with  gladness  from 

his  wing  ? 
Are  the  songs  of  Hope  for  ever  flown? — the  syren  voice  which 

flung 
The  chant  of  Youth's  warm  happiness  from  the  beguiler's 

tongue  ? 
Shall  I  drink  no  more  the   melody  of  babbling  stream  or 

bird, 
Or  the  scented  gales  of  Summer,  when  the  leaves  of  June 

are  stirred  ? 
Shall  the   pulse  of  love  wax  fainter,  and  the  spirit  shrink 

from  death, 

As  the  bud-like  thoughts  which  lit  my  heart  fade  in  its  chill 
ing  breath  ? 

"  I  have  passed  the  dreams  of  childhood,  and  my  loves  and 

hopes  are  gone, 
And  I  turn  to  Thee,  Redeemer,  oh,  thou  blest  and   holy 

one  ! 
Though  the  rose  of  health  has  vanished,  and  the  mandate 

hath  been  spoken, 
And  one  by  one  the  golden  links  of  life's  fond  chain  are 

broken, 
Yet  can  my  spirit  turn  to  thee,  thou  chastener,  and  can 

bend 
In  humble  suppliance  at  thy  feet,  my  Father  and  my  Friend ! 


THE  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  PEOPLE.       159 

Thou  who  hast  crowned  my  youth  with  hope,  my  early  days 

with  glee, 
Give  me  the  eagle's  fearless  wing — the  dove's  to  mount  to 

thee! 

"  I  lose  my  foolish  hold  on  life,  its  passions  and  its  tears — 
How  brief  the  golden  ecstacies  of  its  young,  careless  years  ! 
I  give  my  heart  to  earth  no  more — the  grave  may  clasp  me 

now — 
The  winds,  whose  tones  I  loved,  may  play  in  the  dim  cypress 

bough ; 

The  birds,  the  streams  are  eloquent,  yet  I  shall  pass  away, 
And  in  the  light  of  heaven  shake   off  this  cumbrous  load  of 

clay; 
I  shall  join  the  lost  and  loved  of  earth,  and  meet  each  kindred 

breast, 
1  Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary  are  at 

rest.' " 


THE  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  PEOPLE. 

[ From  the  French  of  Ber anger.] 

BY   THEODORE    S.    FAY. 

THEY'LL  talk  of  him,  and  of  his  glory, 
The  cottage  hearth,  at  eve,  around ; 

Fifty  years  hence  no  other  story 
Shall  'neath  the  lowly  thatch  resound. 

Then  shall  the  villagers  repair 
To  some  gray  ancient  dame, 


160      THE  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  PEOPLE. 

And  bid  her  long-past  times  declare, 

And  tell  his  deeds,  his  fame. 
"  Ah,  though  it  cost  us  life  and  limb," 

They'll  say,  "  our  love  is  still  the  same, 

And  still  the  people  love  his  name  ; 
Good  mother,  tell  of  him  !" 
My  children,  through  this  very  region 

He  journey'd  with  a  train  of  kings, 
Followed  by  many  a  gallant  legion  ! 

(How  many  thoughts  to  me  it  brings, 
That  tell  of  days  so  long  gone  by  !) 

He  climbed  on  foot  the  very  hill 
Where,  seated  on  the  bank,  was  I 

To  see  him  pass.     I  see  him  still ; 
The  small,  three-coloured  hat  he  wore, 

And  the  surtout  of  gray. 
I  trembled  at  his  sight  all  o'er  ! — 

Cheerful  he  said,  "  My  dear,  good  day !" 

"  Mother,  he  spoke  to  you,  you  say  ?" 
"  Ay,  said  { good  day'  once  more." 

Next  year  at  Paris,  too,  one  morning, 

Myself,  I  saw  him  with  his  court, 
Princes  and  queens  his  suite  adorning, 

To  Notre  Dame  he  did  resort ; 
And  every  body  blest  the  day 

And  prayed  for  him  and  his ; 
How  happily  he  took  his  way, 

And  smiled  in  all  a  father's  bliss, 
For  heaven  a  son  bestowed  !" 

"  A  happy  day  for  you  was  this, 
Good  mother  !"  then  they  say  : 

"  When  thus  you  saw  him  on  the  road, 
In  Notre  Dame  to  kneel  and  pray, 

A  good  heart  sure  it  showed." 


THE  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  PEOPLE.       161 

"  Alas  !  ere  long,  invading  strangers 

Brought  death  and  ruin  in  our  land  ! 
(Alone  he  stood  and  braved  all  dangers, 

The  sword  in  his  unconquer'd  hand.) 
One  night,  (it  seems  but  yesterday,) 

I  heard  a  knocking  at  the  door — 
It  was  himself  upon  his  way, 

A  few  true  followers,  no  more, 
Stood  worn  and  weary  at  his  side. 

Where  I  am  sitting  now  he  sat — - 
(  Oh  what  a  war  is  this  !'  he  cried. 

1  Oh  what  a  war  !' "  "  Mother,  how's  that  ? 
Did  he,  then,  sit  in  that  same  chair  ?" 
**  My  children,  yes  ! — he  rested  there  !" 

"  I'm  hungry,"  then  he  said,  "  and  gladly 

I  brought  him  country  wine  and  bread  5 
The  gray  surtout  was  dripping  sadly ; 

He  dried  it  by  this  fire.     His  head, 
He  leaned  against  this  wall,  and  slept — • 

While,  as  for  me,  I  sat  and  wept. 
He  walked  and  cried,  '  Be  of  good  cheer  ! 

I  go  to  Paris,  France  to  free, 
And  better  times,  be  sure,  are  near  !' 

He  went,  and  I  have  ever  kept 
The  cup  he  drank  from — children,  see  ! 
My  greatest  treasure  !"     "  Show  it  me," 
"And  me  !" — "  and  me  !"  the  listeners  cry — 
"  Good  mother,  keep  it  carefully  !" 

"  Ah,  it  is  safe  !  but  where  is  he? 

Crowned  by  the  pope,  our  father  good, 
In  a  lone  island  of  the  sea 

The  hero  died.     Long  time  we  stood 
21 


162  THE    HUSBAND    TO    HIS    WIFE. 

Firm  in  belief  he  was  not  dead, 

And  some  by  sea,  and  some  by  land  — 
But  all,  that  he  was  coming,  said. 
And  when,  at  length,  all  hope  was  o'er, 
Than  I,  were  few  that  sorrowed  more  !" 

"  Ah,  mother,  well  we  understand  ! 
Our  blessings  on  you  ;  we  too  weep, 
We  will  pray  for  you  ere  we  sleep  !" 


THE  HUSBAND  TO  HIS  WIFE, 


ON    HER    BIRTH-DAY. 


BY   JOHN   INMAN. 


NAY,  ask  me  not,  my  dearest !  why  silent  I  remain — 

Not  often  will  my  feelings  speak  in  smooth  and  measured 

strain. 

The  joy  that  fills  my  heart,  in  the  love  I  bear  to  thee, 
Too  deeply  in  that  heart  is  shrined,  by  words  expressed  to  be ; 
And  thousand  thoughts  of  tenderness,  that  in  my   bosom 

throng, 

O' 

Are  all  too  bright  and  blessed  to  be  manacled  in  song. 
This  is  thy  birth-day,  dearest — the  fairest  of  the  year — 
To  many  giving  gladness,  but  to  me  of  all  most  dear  ; 
The  birth-day  of  my  happiness,  which  sprang  to  life  with 

thee, 
As  hope  springs  in  the  captive's  breast  with  the  hour  that 

sets  him  free. 


VERSES.  163 

I  hail  its  happy  dawning,  with  a  love  like  that  which  fills 
My  heart  for  thee,  my  pure  one,  when  thy  kind  voice  in  it 

thrills. 

I  bless  it  and  its  memories,  and  the  blessing  which  I  give, 
Is  fervent  as  the  dying  man's  to  him  who  bids  him  live — 
But  the  joy  I  have  in  thee,  dear  love,  speaks  not  in  echoes  loud, 
Nor  will  its  tranquil  flowing  be  revealed  before  a  crowd. 


VERSES 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  COL.  WOOD  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES5  ARMY,  WHO 
FELL  AT  THE  SORTIE  OF  ERIE. 

BY   THE   LATE   GEN.    J.   MORTON. 

WHAT  though  on  foeman's  land  he  fell, 
No  stone  the  sacred  spot  to  tell, 
Yet  where  the  noble  Hudson's  waves 
Its  shores  of  lofty  granite  laves, 
The  loved  associates  of  his  youth, 
Who  knew  his  worth — his  spotless  truth, 
Have  bade  the  marble  column  rise, 
To  bid  the  world  that  worth  to  prize  ; 
To  teach  the  youth  like  him  aspire, 
And  never-fading  fame  acquire  ; 
Like  him  on  Glory's  wings  to  rise, 
To  reach,  to  pierce  the  azure  skies. 
And  oft  the  Patriot  there  will  sigh, 
And  Sorrow  oft  cloud  Beauty's  eye, 
Whene'er  fond  memory  brings  again 
The  Youth  who  sleeps  on  Erie's  plain. 


164 
LIFE'S    GUIDING    STAR. 

BY    WILLIAM    LEGGETT. 

THE  youth  whose  bark  is  guided  o'er 

A  summer  stream  by  zephyr's  breath, 
With  idle  gaze  delights  to  pore 

On  imaged  skies  that  glow  beneath. 
Bat  should  a  fleeting  storm  arise 

To  shade  awhile  the  watery  way, 
Q,uick  lifts  to  heaven  his  anxious  eyes, 

And  speeds  to  reach  some  sheltering  bay. 

'Tis  thus  down  time's  eventful  tide, 
While  prosperous  breezes  gently  blow, 

In  life's  frail  bark  we  gaily  glide 

Our  hopes,  our  thoughts  all  fixed  below. 

But  let  one  cloud  the  prospect  dim, 
The  wind  its  quiet  stillness  mar, 

At  once  we  raise  our  prayer  to  Him 
•  Whose  light  is  life's  best  guiding  star. 


DESPONDENCY. 

WRITTEN    IN    DEJECTION    AND    SORROW    FOR    LOST    TIME. 

BY    JOHN    INM  AN. 

WHENCE  come,  my  soul,  these  gloomy  dreams, 
That  darken  thus  my  waking  hours  ? 

And  whence  this  blighting  cloud,  that  seems 
To  wither  all  thy  better  powers  ? 


DESPONDENCY,  165 

What  is  this  cankering  worm  that  clings 

Around  my  heart  with  deadly  strain, 
That  o'er  my  thoughts  its  mildew  flings, 

And  makes  my  life  one  age  of  pain  ? 

I  find  no  joy  in  home  or  friends — 

E'en  music's  voice  has  lost  its  spell — • 
To  me  the  rose  no  perfume  lends. 

And  mirth  and  I  have  said  farewell. 
I  dare  not  think  upon  the  past, 

Where  dwells  remembrance,  fraught  with  pain  ; 
Of  youth's  pure  joys  that  could  not  last, 

And  hopes  I  ne'er  shall  know  again. 

I  da.re  not  ask  the  coming  years 

What  gifts  their  onward  flight  shall  bring  ; 
For  what  but  grief,  and  shame,  and  tears, 

From  wasted  time  and  powers  can  spring  ? 
Yet  I  can  deck  my  cheek  with  smiles, 

And  teach  my  heart  to  seem  to  glow, 
Though  colder  than  those  Northern  isles 

Of  ice  and  everlasting  snow. 

Upon  the  frozen  surface  there, 

With  tenfold  light  the  sunbeams  play — 
Bat  false  the  dazzling  gleam  as  fair — 

No  verdure  springs  beneath  the  ray. 
And  falser  yet  the  laughing  eye — 

The  cheek  that  wears  a  seeming  smile — 
The  heart  that  hides  its  misery, 

And  breaks  beneath  its  load  the  while. 


166 


TO    A   GOLDFINCH. 

BY   ROSWELL    PARK. 

BIRD  of  the  gentle  wing, 

Songster  of  air, 
Home,  from  thy  wandering, 

Dost  thou  repair  ? 
Art  thou  deserted  then, 

Wilder'd  and  lone  ? 
Come  to  my  breast  again, 

Beautiful  one. 

Here  in  the  rosy  beds 

Hover  anew ; 
Eating  the  garden  seeds, 

Sipping  the  dew : 
Then  in  my  bower 

The  fragrance  inhale 
Of  each  lovely  flower 

That  waves  in  the  gale. 

When  the  bright  morning  star, 

Rising  on  high, 
Day's  early  harbinger, 

Shines  in  the  sky, 
Then  shall  thy  numbers, 

So  lively  and  gay, 
Rouse  me  from  slumbers, 

To  welcome  the  day. 


THE    MIDNIGHT    BALL.  167 

When  the  still  evening  comes. 

Tranquil  and  clear  ; 
When  the  dull  beetle  roams, 

Drumming  the  air ; 
Then,  on  the  willow-trees 

Shading  the  door, 
Sing  me  thy  melodies 

Over  once  more. 

Thus  shall  the  moments  fly 

Sweetly  along, 
Tuned  to  thy  minstrelsy, 

Cheered  by  thy  song  ; 
Till  as  the  light  declines 

Far  in  the  west, 
Thou,  'mid  the  trellis'd  vines, 

Hush  thee  to  rest. 


THE   MIDNIGHT   BALL 

BY   MISS   ELIZABETH   BOGART. 

SHE  's  bid  adieu  to  the  midnight  ball, 

And  cast  the  gems  aside, 
Which  glittered  in  the  lighted  hall : 

Her  tears  she  cannot  hide. 
She  weeps  not  that  the  dance  is  o'er, 

The  music  and  the  song ; 
She  weeps  not  that  her  steps  no  more 

Are  follow'd  by  the  throng. 


168  THE    DESERTED    BRIDE. 

Her  memory  seeks  one  form  alone 

Within  that  crowded  hall ; 
Her  truant  thoughts  but  dwell  on  one 

At  that  gay  midnight  ball. 
And  thence  her  tears  unbidden  flow  — 

She 's  bid  adieu  to  him ; 
The  light  of  love  is  darken'd  now  — 

All  other  lights  are  dim. 

She  throws  the  worthless  wreath  away 

That  deck'd  her  shining  hair ; 
She  tears  apart  the  bright  bouquet 

Of  flowrets  rich  and  rare. 
The  leaves  lie  scattered  at  her  feet, 

She  heeds  not  where  they  fall ; 
She  sees  in  them  an  emblem  meet 

To  mark  the  midnight-ball. 


THE   DESERTED   BRIDE 

[Svggcttcd  by  a  Scene  in  the  Play  of  the  Hunchback.] 

BY  G.   P.   MORRIS. 

"  LOVE  me  !— No — he  never  loved  me  !" 
Else  he'd  sooner  die  than  stain 

One  so  fond  as  he  has  proved  me 

With  the  hollow  world's  disdain. 

False  one,  go — my  doom  is  spoken, 

And  the  spell  that  bound  me  broken  ! 


THE    DESERTED    BRIDE.  169 

Wed  him  ! — Never. — He  has  lost  me  ! — 

Tears  !— Well,  let  them  flow !— His  bride?— 

No. — The  struggle  life  may  cost  me  ! 
But  he'll  find  that  I  have  pride ! 

Love  is  not  an  idle  flower, 

Blooms  and  dies  the  self-same  hour. 

Titles,  lands,  and  broad  dominion, 

With  himself  to  me  he  gave  ; 
Stoop'd  to  earth  his  spirit's  pinion, 

And  became  my  willing  slave  ! 
Knelt  and  pray'd  until  he  won  me — 
Looks  he  coldly  now  upon  me  ? 

Ingrate  ! — Never  sure  was  maiden 

Wronged  so  foul  as  I.     With  grief 
My  true  breast  is  overladen — 

Tears  afford  me  no  relief. — 
Every  nerve  is  strained  and  aching, 
And  my  very  heart  is  breaking  ! 

4&t  '  »* 

Love  I  him?— Thus  scorned  and  slighted — 
Thrown,  like  worthless  weed,  apart — 

Hopes  and  feelings  sear'd  and  blighted — 
Love  him  ? — Yes,  with  all  my  heart ! 

With  a  passion  superhuman — 

Constancy,  "  thy  name  is  woman." 

Love  nor  time,  nor  mood,  can  fashion — 

Love  ? — Idolatry's  the  word 
To  speak  the  broadest,  deepest  passion, 

Ever  woman's  heart  hath  stirr'd  1 
Vain  to  still  the  mind's  desires, 
Which  consume  like  hidden  fires  ! 
22 


170  THE    DESERTED    BRIDE. 

Wreck'd  and  wretched,  lost  and  lonely, 
Crush'd  by  grief's  oppressive  weight, 

With  a  prayer  for  Clifford  only, 
I  resign  me  to  my  fate. 

Chains  that  bind  the  soul  I've  proven 

Strong  as  they  were  iron-woven. 

Deep  the  wo  that  fast  is  sending 

From  my  cheek  its  healthful  bloom; 

Sad  my  thoughts,  as  willows  bending 
O'er  the  borders  of  the  tomb. 

Without  Clifford  not  a  blessing 

In  the  world  is  worth  possessing. 

Wealth  ! — a  straw  within  the  balance, 

Opposed  to  love  'twill  kick  the  beam : 

Kindred — friendship — beauty — talents? — 
All  to  love  as  nothing  seem ; 

Weigh  love  against  all  else  together, 

As  solid  gold  against  a  feather. 

Hope  is  flown — away  disguises — 

Nought  but  death  relief  can  give— 
For  the  love  he  little  prizes 

Cannot  cease  and  Julia  live  ! 
Soon  my  thread  of  life  will  sever — 
Clifford,  fare  thee  well — for  ever  ! 


171 


THOUGHTS  AT   THE    GRAVE   OF  A  DEPARTED 
FRIEND. 

BY    JOHN    INMAN. 

LOVED,  lost  one,  fare  thee  well — too  harsh  the  doom 
That  called  thee  thus  in  opening  life  away ; 

Tears  fall  for  thee  ;  and  at  thy  early  tomb 
I  come  at  each  return  of  this  blest  day, 

When  evening  hovers  near,  with  solemn  gloom, 
The  pious  debt  of  sorrowing  thought  to  pay, 

For  thee,  blest  spirit,  whose  loved  form  alone 

Here  mouldering  sleeps,  beneath  this  simple  stone. 

But  memory  claims  thee  still ;  and  slumber  brings 
Thy  form  before  me  as  in  life  it  came  ; 

Affection  conquers  death,  and  fondly  clings 
Unto  the  past,  and  thee,  and  thy  loved  name  ; 

And  hours  glide  swiftly  by  on  noiseless  wings, 
While  sad  discourses  of  thy  loss  I  frame, 

With  her  the  friend  of  thy  most  tranquil  years, 

Who  mourns  for  thee  with  grief  too  deep  for  tears. 

Evening. 


SONG. 

BY  THEODORE   S.   FAY. 

A  CARELESS,  simple  bird,  one  day 

Flutt'ring  in  Flora's  bowers, 
Fell  in  a  cruel  trap,  which  lay 

All  hid  among  the  flowers, 

Forsooth,  the  pretty,  harmless  flowers. 


172  ANACREONTIC. 

The  spring  was  closed  ;  poor,  silly  soul, 

He  knew  not  what  to  do, 
Till,  squeezing  through  a  tiny  hole, 

At  length  away  he  flew, 

Unhurt — at  length  away  he  flew. 

And  now  from  every  fond  regret 

And  idle  anguish  free, 
He,  singing,  says,  "  You  need  not  set 

Another  trap  for  me, 

False  girl !  another  trap  for  me." 


ANACREONTIC. 

BY    C.   F.   HOFFMAN. 

BLAME  not  the  Bowl — the  fruitful  Bowl ! 

Whence  wit,  and  mirth,  and  music  spring, 
And  amber  drops  elysian  roll, 

To  bathe  young  Love's  delighted  wing. 
What  like  the  grape  Osiris  gave 

Makes  rigid  age  so  lithe  of  limb  ? 
Illumines  Memory's  tearful  wave, 

And  teaches  drowning  Hope  to  swim  ? 
Did  Ocean  from  his  radiant  arms 

To  earth  another  Venus  give, 
He  ne'er  could  match  the  mellow  charms 

That  in  the  breathing  beaker  live. 


MELODY.  173 


Like  burning  thoughts  which  lovers  hoard 

In  characters  that  mock  the  sight, 
Till  some  kind  liquid,  o'er  them  poured, 

Brings  all  their  hidden  warmth  to  light — 
Are  feelings  bright,  which,  in  the  cup, 

Though  graven  deep,  appear  but  dim, 
Till  rilled  with  glowing  Bacchus  up, 

They  sparkle  on  the  foaming  brim. 
Each  drop  upon  the  first  you  pour 

Brings  some  new  tender  thought  to  life, 
And  as  you  fill  it  more  and  more, 

The  last  with  fervid  soul  is  rife. 

The  island  fount,  that  kept  of  old 

Its  fabled  path  beneath  the  sea, 
And  fresh,  as  first  from  earth  it  rolled, 

From  earth  again  rose  joyously ; 
Bore  not  beneath  the  bitter  brine, 

Each  flower  upon  its  limpid  tide, 
More  faithfully  than  in  the  wine, 

Our  hearts  will  toward  each  other  glide. 
Then  drain  the  cup,  and  let  thy  soul 

Learn,  as  the  draught  delicious  flies, 
Like  pearls  in  the  Egyptian's  bowl, 

Truth  beaming  at  the  bottom  lies. 


MELODY. 


BY     WILLIAM     LEGGETT. 


IP  yon  bright  stars,  which  gem  the  night, 
Be  each  a  blissful  dwelling  sphere, 

Where  kindred  spirits  re-unite 

Whom  death  has  torn  asunder  here, 


174  MY    NATIVE    LAND. 

How  sweet  it  were  at  once  to  die, 
And  leave  this  blighted  orb  afar, 

Mixt  soul  and  soul  to  cleave  the  sky, 
And  soar  away  from  star  to  star. 

But  oh,  how  dark,  how  drear  and  lone, 

Would  seem  the  brightest  world  of  bliss, 
If  wandering  through  each  radiant  one 

We  failed  to  find  the  loved  of  this  ; 
If  there  no  more  the  ties  shall  twine 

That  death's  cold  hand  alone  could  sever ; 
Ah  !  then  these  stars  in  mockery  shine, 

More  hateful  as  they  shine  for  ever. 

It  cannot  be  each  hope,  each  fear, 

That  lights  the  eye  or  clouds  the  brow, 
Proclaims  there  is  a  happier  sphere 

Than  this  bleak  world  that  holds  us  now. 
There  is  a  voice  which  sorrow  hears, 

When  heaviest  weighs  life's  galling  chain  ; 
'Tis  heaven  that  whispers — Dry  thy  tears, 

The  pure  in  heart  shall  meet  again. 


MY    NATIVE    LAND. 

BY  THEODORE  S.   FAY. 

COLUMBIA,  was  thy  continent  stretched  wild, 
In  later  ages,  the  huge  seas  above  ? 

And  art  thou  Nature's  youngest,  fairest  child, 
Most  favoured  by  thy  gentle  mother's  love  ? 


MY    NATIVE    LAND.  175 

Where  now  we  stand,  did  ocean  monsters  rove, 

Tumbling  uncouth,  in  those  dim,  vanish'd  years, 
When,  through  the  Red  Sea,  Pharaoh's  thousands  drove, 

When  struggling  Joseph  dropped  fraternal  tears,  [seers  ? 
When  God  came  down  from  heaven,  and  mortal  men  were 

Or,  have  thy  forests  waved,  thy  rivers  run, 

Elysian  solitudes,  untrod  by  man, 
Silent  and  lonely,  since,  around  the  sun, 

Her  ever-wheeling  circle,  earth  began  ? 
Thy  unseen  flowers,  did  here  the  breezes  fan  ? 

With  wasted  perfume  ever  on  them  flung? 
And  o'er  thy  show'rs,  neglected  rainbows  span, 

When  Alexander  fought,  when  Homer  sung, 
And  the  old  populous  world  with  thundering  battle  rung  ? 

Yet  what  to  me,  or  when,  or  how  thy  birth, 

No  musty  tomes  are  here  to  tell  of  thee  ; 
None  know,  if  cast  when  nature  first  the  earth  [tree, 

Shaped  round,  and  clothed  with  grass,  and  flower,  and 
Or,  whether  since,  by  changes,  silently, 

Of  sand  and  shell,  and  wave,  thy  wonders  grew ; 
Or  if,  before  man's  little  memory, 

Some  shock  stupendous  rent  the  globe  in  two, 
And  thee,  a  fragment,  far  in  western  oceans  threw. 

I  know  but  that  I  love  thee.     On  my  heart, 

Like  a  dear  friend's,  are  stamped  thy  features  now  • 
Though  there,  the  Roman,  or  the  Grecian  art 

Hath  lent,  to  deck  thy  plain  and  mountain  brow, 
No  broken  temples,  fain  at  length  to  bow, 

Moss-grown  and  crumbling  with  the  weight  of  time. 
Not  these,  o'er  thee,  their  mystic  splendours  throw  ; 

Themes  eloquent  for  pencil  or  for  rhyme, 
As  many  a  soul  can  tell  that  pours  its  thoughts  sublime. 


176  MY    NATIVE    LAND. 

But  thou  art  sternly  artless,  wildly  free  : 

We  worship  thee  for  beauties  all  thine  own. 
Like  damsel,  young  and  sweet,  and  sure  to  be 

Admired,  but  only  for  herself  alone. 
With  richer  foliage  ne'er  was  land  o'ergrown. 

No  mightier  rivers  run,  nor  mountains  rise  ; 
Nor  ever  lakes  with  lovelier  graces  shone, 

Nor  wealthier  harvests  waved  in  human  eyes, 
Nor  lay  more  liquid  stars  along  more  heavenly  skies. 

I  dream  of  thee,  fairest  of  fairy  streams. 

Sweet  Hudson  !  Float  we  on  thy  summer  breast. 
Who  views  thy  enchanted  windings  ever  deems 

Thy  banks,  of  mortal  shores,  the  loveliest  ! 
Hail  to  thy  shelving  slopes,  with  verdure  dress'd, 

Bright  break  thy  waves  the  varied  beach  upon  ; 
Soft  rise  thy  hills,  by  amorous  clouds  caress'd ; 

Clear  flow  thy  waters,  laughing  in  the  sun — 
Would  through  such  peaceful  scenes  my  life  might  gently 
run ! 

And  lo  !  the  Catskills  print  the  distant  sky  ; 

And  o'er  their  airy  tops  the  faint  clouds  driven, 
So  softly  blending,  that  the  cheated  eye 

Forgets,  or  which  is  earth  or  which  is  heaven — 
Sometimes,  like  thunder  clouds,  they  shade  the  even, 

Till,  as  you  nearer  draw,  each  wooded  height 
Puts  off  the  azure  hues  by  distance  given ; 

And  slowly  break,  upon  the  enamour'd  sight, 
Ravine,  crag,  field  and  wood,  in  colours  true  and  bright. 

Mount  to  the  cloud-kissed  summit.     Far  below 
Spreads  the  vast  Champaign  like  a  shoreless  sea. 

Mark  yonder  narrow  streamlet  feebly  .flow, 
Like  idle  brook  that  creeps  ingloriously ; 


MY    NATIVE    LAND.  177 

Can  that  the  lovely,  lordly  Hudson  be, 

Stealing-  by  town  and  mountain  ?     Who  beholds, 

At  break  of  day,  this  scene,  when,  silently, 
Its  map  of  field,  wood,  hamlet  is  unroll'd, 
While,  in  the  east,  the  sun  uprears  his  locks  of  gold, 

Till  earth  receive  him  never  can  forget. 

Even  when  returned  amid  the  city's  roar, 
The  fairy  vision  haunts  his  memory  yet, 

As  in  the  sailor's  fancy  shines  the  shore. 
Imagination  cons  the  moment  o'er, 

When  first  discover'd,  awe-struck  and  amazed. 
Scarce  loftier,  Jove — whom  men  and  gods  adore — 

On  the  extended  earth  beneath  him  gazed, 
Temple,  and  tower,  and  town,  by  human  insect  raised. 

Blow,  scented  gale — the  snowy  canvass  swell, 

And  flow,  thou  silver,  eddying  current  on. 
Grieve  we  to  bid  each  lovely  point  farewell, 

That,  ere  its  graces  half  are  seen,  is  gone. 
By  woody  bluif  we  steal,  by  leaning  lawn, 

By  palace,  village,  cot,  a  sweet  surprise, 
At  every  turn,  the  vision  breaks  upon, 

Till  to  our  wondering  and  uplifted  eyes 
The  Highland  rocks  and  hills  in  solemn  grandeur  rise, 

Nor  clouds  in  heaven,  nor  billows  in  the  deep, 

More  graceful  shapes  did  ever  heave  or  roll, 
Nor  came  such  pictures  to  a  painter's  sleep, 

Nor  beamed  such  visions  on  a  poet's  soul ! 
The  pent-up  flood,  impatient  of  control, 

In  ages  past,  here  broke  its  granite  bound ; 
Then  to  the  sea,  in  broad  meanders,  stole ; 

While  ponderous  ruins  strewed  the  broken  ground, 
And  these  gigantic  hills  for  ever  closed  around. 

23 


178  MY    NATIVE    LAND. 

And  ever-wakeful  echo  here  doth  dwell, 

The  nymph  of  sportive  mockery,  that  still 
Hides  behind  every  rock,  in  every  dell, 

And  softly  glides,  unseen,  from  hill  to  hill. 
No  sound  doth  rise,  but  mimic  it  she  will, 

The  sturgeon's  splash  repeating  from  the  shore, 
Aping  the  boy's  voice  with  a  voice  as  shrill, 

The  bird's  low  warble,  and  the  thunder's  roar, 
Always  she  watches  there,  each  murmur  telling  o'er. 

Awake  my  lyre,  with  other  themes  inspired. 

Where  yon  bold  point  repels  the  crystal  tide, 
The  Briton  youth,  lamented  and  admired, 

His  country's  hope,  her  ornament  and  pride, 
A  traitor's  death,  ingloriously  died, 

On  freedom's  altar  offered ;  in  the  sight 
Of  God,  by  men  who  will  their  act  abide, 

On  the  great  day,  and  hold  their  deed  aright, 
To  stop  the  breath  would  quench  young  Freedom's  holy  light. 

But  see  !  the  broadening  river  deeper  flows, 

Its  tribute  floods  intent  to  reach  the  sea, 
While,  from  the  west,  the  fading  sunlight  throws 

Its  softening  hues  on  stream,  and  field  and  tree ; 
All  silent  nature  bathing,  wondrously, 

In  charms  that  soothe  the  heart  with  sweet  desires, 
And  thoughts  of  friends  we  ne'er  again  may  see, 

Till  lo  !  ahead,  Manhatta's  bristling  spires, 
Above  her  thousand  roofs  red  with  day's  dying  fires. 

May  greet  the  wanderer  of  Columbia's  shore, 
Proud  Venice  of  the  west !  no  lovelier  scene. 

Of  thy  vast  throngs,  now  faintly  comes  the  roar, 
Though  late  like  beating-ocean  surf  I  ween  — 


HE    CAME    TOO    LATE.  179 

And  every  where  thy  various  barks  are  seen, 

Cleaving  the  limpid  floods  that  round  thee  flow, 
Encircled  by  thy  banks  of  sunny  green  — 
The  panting  steamer  plying  to  and  fro, 
Or  the  tall  sea-bound  ship  abroad  on  wings  of  snow. 

And  radiantly  upon  the  glittering  mass, 

The  God  of  day  his  parting  glances  sends, 
As  some  warm  soul,  from  earth  about  to  pass, 

Back  on  its  fading  scenes  and  mourning  friends, 
Deep  words  of  love  and  looks  of  rapture  bends. 

More  bright  and  bright,  as  near  their  end  they  be. 
On,  on,  great  orb !  to  earth's  remotest  ends, 

Each  land  irradiate,  and  every  sea  — 
But  oh,  my  native  land,  not  one,  not  one  like  thee ! 


HE   CAME   TOO   LATE! 

BY   MISS   ELIZABETH   BOGART. 

HE  came  too  late  !  —  Neglect  had  tried 

Her  constancy  too  long ; 
Her  love  had  yielded  to  her  pride, 

And  the  deep  sense  of  wrong. 
She  scorned  the  offering  of  a  heart 

Which  lingered  on  its  way, 
Till  it  could  no  delight  impart, 

Nor  spread  one  cheering  ray. 


180  HE    CAME    TOO    LATE. 

He  came  too  late  !  —  At  once  he  felt 

That  all  his  power  was  o'er  ! 
Indifference  in  her  calm  smile  dwelt, 

She  thought  of  him  no  more. 
Anger  and  grief  had  passed  away, 

Her  heart  and  thoughts  were  free ; 
She  met  him,  and  her  words  were  gay, 

No  spell  had  memory. 

He  came  too  late  !  —  The  subtle  chords 

Of  love  were  all  unbound, 
Not  by  offence  of  spoken  words, 

But  by  the  slights  that  wound. 
She  knew  that  life  held  nothing  now 

That  could  the  past  repay, 
Yet  she  disdained  his  tardy  vow, 

And  coldly  turned  away. 

He  came  too  late  !  —  Her  countless  dreams 

Of  hope  had  long  since  flown  ; 
No  charms  dwelt  in  his  chosen  themes, 

Nor  in  his  whispered  tone. 
And  when,  with  word  and  smile,  he  tried 

Affection  still  to  prove, 
She  nerved  her  heart  with  woman's  pride, 

And  spurned  his  fickle  love. 


181 


VERSES, 

WRITTEN    IN    A    BOOK    OF    FORTUNES,    1787. 

BY   THE   LATE    GEN.    MORTON. 

As  through  the  garden's  sweet  domain 

The  bee  from  leaf  to  leaf  will  rove, 
Will  cull  its  sweets  with  anxious  pain, 

Then  bear  its  treasures  to  his  love ; 
So  from  those  leaves  which  bring  to  view 

Things  hid  by  fate  in  Time's  dark  reign, 
With  care  I  'd  cull,  dear  girl,  for  you, 

The  richest  blessings  they  contain ; 
But  fortune  here  our  power  restrains, 

Nor  leaves  her  blessings  in  our  hand : 
To  ivish,  alone  to  us  remains. 

The  Gift  is  still  at  her  command. 

Take,  then,  sweet  maid,  this  wish  sincere, 

Which  in  a  friendly  heart  doth  glow  — 
A  heart  which  will  thy  worth  revere 

Till  life's  rich  streams  shall  cease  to  flow 
On  the  fair  morning  of  thy  life 

May  love  beam  forth  his  brightest  ray,  — 
May  friendship's  joys,  unvexed  by  strife, 

Glad  the  meridian  of  thy  day ; 
And  when  life's  solemn  eve  shall  come, 

And  time  to  you  shall  ever  cease, 
May  then  religion  cheer  the  gloom, 

And  light  thy  path  to  endless  peace. 


182 


EPITAPH    UPON    A    DOG. 


BY    C.    F.    HOFFMAN. 


AN  ear  that  caught  my  slightest  tone 

In  kindness  or  in  anger  spoken ; 
An  eye  that  ever  watch'd  my  own 

In  vigils  death  alone  has  broken ; 
Its  changeless,  ceaseless,  and  unbought 

Affection  to  the  last  revealing ; 
Beaming  almost  with  human  thought,      ^ 

And  more  than  human  feeling ! 

Can  such  in  endless  sleep  be  chilled, 

And  mortal  pride  disdain  to  sorrow, 
Because  the  pulse  that  here  was  stilled 

May  wake  to  no  immortal  morrow  ? 
Can  faith,  devotedness,  and  love, 

That  seem  to  humbler  creatures  given 
To  tell  us  what  we  owe  above  ! 

The  types  of  what  is  due  to  Heaven  ? 

Can  these  be  with  the  things  that  were, 

Things  cherished  —  but  no  more  returning ; 
And  leave  behind  no  trace  of  care, 

No  shade  that  speaks  a  moment's  mourning  1 
Alas  !  my  friend,  of  all  of  worth, 

That  years  have  stol'n  or  years  yet  leave  me, 
I  Ve  never  known  so  much  on  earth, 

But  that  the  loss  of  thine  must  grieve  me. 


183 


LINES    FOR  MUSIC. 

BY   THEODORE   S.    FAY. 

OVER  forest  and  meadow  the  night  breeze  is  stealing, 

The  blush  of  the  sunset  is  glowing  no  more — 
And  the  stream  which  we  love,  harmless  fires  revealing, 

With  ripples  of  silver  is  kissing  the  shore. 
I  have  watched  from  the  beach  which  your  presence  en 
chanted, 

In  the  star-lighted  heaven  each  beautiful  gem, 
And  I  sighed  as  I  thought,  ere  the  break  of  the  morning, 

From  the  gaze  of  my  eyes  you  must  vanish  like  them. 
Then  stay  where  the  night  breeze  o'er  flowers  is  stealing, 

And  raise  your  young  voices  in  music  once  more  ; 
Let  them  blend  with  the  stream,  its  soft  murmurs  revealing 

In  the  ripples  of  silver  which  roll  to  the  shore. 

But  when  summer  has  fled,  and  yon  flowers  have  faded, 

And  the  fields  and  the  forests  are  withered  and  sere — • 
When  the  friends  now  together,  by  distance  are  parted, 

Leaving  nothing  but  winter  and  loneliness  here  ; 
Will  you  think  of  the  hour,  when  in  friendship  united, 

I  lingered  at  evening  to  bid  you  adieu  ; 
When  I  paused  by  the  stream,  with  the  stars  so  delighted, 

And  wished  I  might  linger  for  ever  with  you  ? 
Oh,  forget  not  the  time  when  that  night  breeze  was  stealing, 

Though  desolate  oceans  between  us  may  roar, 
The  beach — and  the  stars — and  the  waters  revealing 

Thoughts  bright  as  the  ripples  which  break  on  the  shore. 


184 


STANZAS. 

**£ 

BY  JOHN  INMAN. 

L'amour  ne  suffit  pas  au  bonheur ;  les  richesses  y  font  aussi  beaucoup  de  cas. 
et  parfois  sans  les  richesses,  Pamour  ne  produit  que  la  misere.  C'est  grand 
dommage,  mais  c'est  vrai. — Madame  de  Beaumarchais. 

ALAS  !  alas,  that  poverty's  cold  hand 

Should  come  to  wither  young  affection's  flowers — 

Marring  the  fairy  pictures  hope  has  planned 
Of  love  and  joy  in  future  happy  hours — 
Alas,  that  all  the  blessings  fancy  showers 

O'er  the  young  heart,  should  turn  to  grief  and  tears, 

Poisoning  the  cup  of  life  through  all  our  after-years ! 

A  moment's  pleasure  and  an  age  of  pain — 

One  hour  of  sunshine,  and  the  rest  all  gloom — 

And  this,  oh  Love,  is  what  from  thee  we  gain — 
Of  all  who  bow  before  thee,  this  the  doom — 
And  in  thy  footsteps,  like  the  dread  Zamoom, 

Pale  sorrow  comes,  a  longer-dwelling  guest, 

To  curse  the  wasted  heart  that  once  by  thee  was  blest. 


JOSHUA  COMMANDING  THE  SUN  AND  MOON  TO 
STAND  STILL. 


VANSCHAICK 


THE  day  rose  clear  on  Gibeon.     Her  high  towers 
Flash'd  the  red  sun-beams  gloriously  back, 
And  the  wind-driven  banners,  and  the  steel 
Of  her  ten  thousand  spears  caught  dazzlingly 


JOSHUA    COMMANDING    THE    SUN,    ETC.  185 

The  sun,  and  on  the  fortresses  of  rock 
Play'd  a  soft  glow,  that  as  a  mockery  seem'd 
To  the  stem  men  who  girded  by  its  light. 
Beth-Horon  in  the  distance  slept,  and  breath 
Was  pleasant  in  the  vale  of  Ajalon, 
Where  armed  heels  trod  carelessly  the  sweet 
Wild  spices,  and  the  trees  of  gum  were  shook 
By  the  rude  armour  on  their  branches  hung. 
Suddenly  in  the  camp  without  the  walls 
Rose  a  deep  murmur,  and  the  men  of  war 
Gather'd  around  their  kings,  and  "  Joshua  ! 
From  Gilgal,  Joshua  !"  was  whisper'd  low, 
As  with  a  secret  fear,  and  then,  at  once, 
With  the  abruptness  of  a  dream,  he  stood 
Upon  the  rock  before  them.     Calmly  then 
Raised  he  his  helm,  and  with  his  temples  bare 
And  hands  uplifted  to  the  sky,  he  pray'd  ; — 
"  God  of  this  people,  hear  !  and  let  the  sun 
Stand  upon  Gibeon,  still ;  and  let  the  moon 
Rest  in  the  vale  of  Ajalon  !"     He  ceased — 
And  lo  !  the  moon  sits  motionless,  and  earth 
Stands  on  her  axis  indolent.     The  sun 
Pours  the  unmoving  column  of  his  rays 
In  undiminish'd  heat ;  the  hours  stand  still ; 
The  shade  hath  stopp'd  upon  the  dial's  face ; 
The  clouds  and  vapours  that  at  night  are  wont 
To  gather  and  enshroud  the  lower  earth, 
Are  struggling  with  strange  rays,  breaking  them  up, 
Scattering  the  misty  phalanx  like  a  wand, 
Glancing  o'er  mountain  tops,  and  shining  down 
In  broken  masses  on  the  astonish'd  plains. 
The  fever'd  cattle  group  in  wondering  herds  ; 
The  weary  birds  go  to  their  leafy  nests, 
But  find  no  darkness  there,  and  wander  forth 
On  feeble,  fluttering  wing,  to  find  a  rest ; 
24 


186  SONG. 

The  parch'd,  baked  earth,  undamp'd  by  usual  dews, 

Has  gaped  and  crack'd,  and  heat,  dry,  mid-day  heat, 

Comes  like  a  drunkard's  breath  upon  the  heart. 

On  with  thy  armies,  Joshua  !     The  Lord 

God  of  Sabaoth  is  the  avenger  now  ! 

His  voice  is  in  the  thunder,  and  his  wrath 

Poureth  the  beams  of  the  retarded  sun, 

With  the  keen  strength  of  arrows,  on  their  sight. 

The  unwearied  sun  rides  in  the  zenith  sky ; 

Nature,  obedient  to  her  Maker's  voice, 

Stops  in  full  course  all  her  mysterious  wheels. 

On  !  till  avenging  swords  have  drunk  the  blood 

Of  all  Jehovah's  enemies,  and  till 

Thy  banners  in  returning  triumph  wave ; 

Then  yonder  orb  shall  set  'mid  golden  clouds, 

And,  while  a  dewy  rain  falls  soft  on  earth, 

Show  in  the  heavens  the  glorious  bow  of  God, 

Shining,  the  rainbow  banner  of  the  skies. 


SONG. 

BY   WILLIAM    LEGGETT. 

I  TRUST  the  frown  thy  features  wear 

Ere  long  into  a  smile  will  turn  ; 
I  would  not  that  a  face  so  fair 

As  thine,  beloved,  should  look  so  stern. 
The  chain  of  ice  that  winter  twines, 

Holds  not  for  aye  the  sparkling  rill, 
It  melts  away  when  summer  shines. 

And  leaves  the  waters  sparkling  still. 


WEST    POINT.  187 


Thus  let  thy  cheek  resume  the  smile 

That  shed  such  sunny  light  before  ; 
And  though  1  left  thee  for  a  while, 
I'll  swear  to  leave  thee,  love,  no  more. 

As  he  who.  doomed  o'er  waves  to  roam, 

Or  wander  on  a  foreign  strand, 
Will  sigh  whene'er  he  thinks  of  home, 

Anct  better  love  his  native  land  ; 
So  I,  though  lured  a  time  away, 

Like  bees  by  varied  sweets,  to  rove, 
Return,  like  bees,  by  close  of  day, 

And  leave  them  all  for  thee,  my  love. 
Then  let  thy  cheek  resume  the  smile 

That  shed  such  sunny  light  before, 
And  though  I  left  thee  for  a  while, 

I'll  swear  to  leave  thee,  love,  no  more. 


WEST    POINT. 

[Suggested  by  the  attendance  on  Public  Worship  of  the  Cadets. — June,  1833.] 


BY    GEORGE   D.    STRONG. 


BUGLES  upon  the  wind  ! 

Hushed  voices  in  the  air, 
And  the  solemn  roll  of  the  stirring  drum, 

Proclaim  the  hour  of  prayer  ; 
While,  with  measured  tread  and  downcast  eye 
The  martial  train  sweep  silent  by  ! 


188  WEST    POINT. 

Away  with  the  nodding  plume. 
And  the  glittering  bayonet  now, 
For  unmeet  it  were,  with  bannered  pomp, 

To  record  the  sacred  vow. 
To  earth-born  strife  let  display  be  given, 
But  the  heart's  meek  homage  alone  to  heaven. 

The  organ's  mellow  notes 
Come  swelling  on  the  breeze, 
And,  echoing  forth  from  arch  to  dome, 

Float  richest  symphonies  ! 
While  youthful  forms,  a  sunny  throng, 
With  their  voices  deep  the  strains  prolong ! 

Deserted  now  the  aisles — 
Devotion's  rites  are  past ; 
And  again  the  bugle's  cheering  peals- 
Are  ringing  on  the  blast ! 
Come  forth,  ye  brave,  for  your  country  now, 
With  your  flashing  eyes  and  your  lofty  brow  ! 

A  voice  from  the  glorious  dead ! 

Awake  to  the  call  of  fame  ! 
By  yon  gorgeous  banner's  spangled  folds, 

And  by  Kosciusko's  name  ! 
And  on  Putnam's  fort  by  the  light  that  falls 
On  its  ivied  moat  and  its  ruined  walls, 

The  wave-worn  cavern  sends 
Hoarse  echoes  from  the  deep, 
And  the  patriot  call  is  heard  afar 
From  every  giant  steep  ! 

And  the  young  hearts  glow  with  the  sacred  fires 
That  burned  in  the  breasts  of  their  gallant  sires. 


THANKSGIVING.  189 

The  glittering  pageant's  past, 

But  martial  forms  are  seen, 
With  bounding  step  and  eagle  glance, 

Careering  o'er  the  green  ; 
And  lovely  woman  by  their  side, 
With  her  blushing  cheek  and  her  eye  of  pride. 

Sunset  upon  the  wave, 

Its  burnished  splendours  pour, 
And  the  bird-like  bark  with  its  pinions  sweeps 

Like  an  arrow  from  the  shore  ! 
There  are  golden  locks  in  the  sunbeam,  fanned 
On  the  mirrored  stream  by  the  breezes  bland. 

They  have  passed  like  shadows  by 

That  fade  in  the  morning  beam, 
And  the  sylph-like  form,  and  the  laughing  eye, 

Are  remembered  like  a  dream  ; 
But  memory's  sun  shall  set  in  night 
Ere  my  soul  forget  those  forms  of  light. 


THANKSGIVING 

AFTER    ESCAPE    FROM    INDIAN    PERILS. 

BY   MRS.   ANNE   E.   BLEECKER. — 1778. 

ALAS  !  my  fond  inquiring  soul, 

Doomed  in  suspense  to  mourn, 
Now  let  thy  moments  calmly  roll, 

Now  let  thy  peace  return. 
Why  should'st  thou  let  a  doubt  disturb 

Thy  hopes  which  daily  rise, 
And  urge  thee  on  to  trust  his  word, 

Who  built  and  rules  the  skies  ? 


190 


THANKSGIVING. 

When  Murder  sent  her  hopeless  cries. 

More  dreadful  through  the  gloom, 
And  kindling  flames  did  round  thee  rise, 

Deep  harvests  to  consume. 
Who  was  it  led  thee  through  the  wood, 

And  o'er  the  ensanguined  plain, 
Unseen  by  ambushed  sons  of  blood, 

Who  track'd  thy  steps  in  vain. 

'Twas  pitying  Heaven  that  check'd  my  tears, 

And  bade  my  infants  play, 
To  give  an  opiate  to  my  fears 

And  cheer  the  lonely  way. 
And  in  the  doubly  dreadful  night, 

When  my  Abella  died, 
When  horror-struck—detesting  light, 

I  sunk  down  by  her  side  ; 

When  winged  for  flight  my  spirit  stood, 

With  this  fond  thought  beguiled, 
To  lead  my  charmer  to  her  God, 

And  there  to  claim  my  child. 
Again  his  mercy  o'er  my  breast 

Effus'd  the  breath  of  peace, 
Subsiding  passion  sunk  to  rest, 

He  bade  the  tempest  cease. 

Oh,  let  me  ever,  ever  praise 

Such  undeserved  care, 
Though  languid  may  appear  my  lays, 

At  least  they  are  sincere. 
It  is  my  joy  that  thou  art  God, 

Eternal  and  supreme ; 
Rise,  Nature — hail  the  power  aloud, 

From  whom  Creation  came. 


191 


BALLAD. 

BY   MRS.    EMMA    C.   EMBURY. 

"  La  rose  cueillie  et  le  cceur  gagn6  ne  plaisent  qu'un  jour." 

THE  maiden  sat  at  her  busy  wheel, 

Her  heart  was  light  and  free, 
And  ever  in  cheerful  song  broke  forth 

Her  bosom's  harmless  glee. 
Her  song  was  in  mockery  of  love, 

And  oft  I  heard  her  say, 
"  The  gathered  rose,  and  the  stolen  heart, 

"  Can  charm  but  for  a  day." 

I  looked  on  the  maiden's  rosy  cheek, 

And  her  lip  so  full  and  bright, 
And  I  sighed  to  think  that  the  traitor  love, 

Should  conquer  a  heart  so  light : 
But  she  thought  not  of  future  days  of  wo, 

While  she  carroled  in  tones  so  gay ; 
"  The  gathered  rose,  and  the  stolen  heart, 

"  Can  charm  but  for  a  day." 

A  year  passed  on,  and  again  I  stood 

By  the  humble  cottage-door  ; 
The  maid  sat  at  her  busy  wheel, 

But  her  look  was  blithe  no  more : 
The  big  tear  stood  in  her  downcast  eye, 

And  with  sighs  I  heard  her  say, 
"The  gathered  rose,  and  the  stolen  heart, 

"  Can  charm  but  for  a  day." 


192  FORGETFULNESS. 

Oh  !  well  I  knew  what  had  dimmed  her  eye, 

And  made  her  cheek  so  pale ; 
The  maid  had  forgotten  her  early  song, 

While  she  listened  to  love's  soft  tale. 
She  had  tasted  the  sweets  of  his  poisoned  cup, 

It  had  wasted  her  life  away : 
And  the  stolen  heart,  like  the  gathered  rose, 

Had  charmed  but  for  a  day. 


FORGETFULNESS. 

BY   MISS   ELIZABETH   S.   BOGART. 

WE  parted — friendship's  dream  had  cast 

Deep  interest  o'er  the  brief  farewell, 
And  left  upon  the  shadowy  past 

Full  many  a  thought  on  which  to  dwell. 
Such  thoughts  as  come  in  early  youth, 

And  live  in  fellowship  with  hope  ; 
Robed  in  the  brilliant  hues  of  truth, 

Unfitted  with  the  world  to  cope. 

We  parted — he  went  o'er  the  sea, 

And  deeper  solitude  was  mine  ; 
Yet  there  remained  in  memory, 

For  feeling,  still  a  sacred  shrine. 
And  thought  and  hope  were  offered  up 

Till  their  ethereal  essence  fled, 
And  disappointment,  from  the  cup, 

Its  dark  libations  poured,  instead. 


FORGETFULNESS.  193 

We  parted — 'twas  an  idle  dream 

That  thus  we  e'er  should  meet  again  ; 
For  who  that  knew  man's  heart,  would  deem 

That  it  could  long  unchanged  remain. 
He  sought  a  foreign  clime,  and  learned 

Another  language,  which  expressed 
To  strangers  the  rich  thoughts  that  burned 

With  unquenched  power  within  his  breast. 

And  soon  he  better  loved  to  speak 

In  those  new  accents  than  his  own  ; 
His  native  tongue  seemed  cold  and  weak, 

To  breathe  the  wakened  passions'  tone. 
He  wandered  far,  and  lingered  long, 

And  drank  so  deep  of  Lethe's  stream, 
That  each  new  feeling  grew  more  strong, 

And  all  the  past  was  like  a  dream. 

We  met — a  few  glad  words  were  spoken, 

A  few  kind  glances  were  exchanged  ; 
But  friendship's  first  romance  was  broken, 

His  had  been  from  me  estranged. 
I  felt  it  all — we  met  no  more — 

My  heart  was  true,  but  it  was  proud ; 
Life's  early  confidence  was  o'er, 

And  hope  had  set  beneath  a  cloud. 

We  met  no  more — for  neither  sought 

To  reunite  the  severed  chain 
Of  social  intercourse  ;  for  nought 

Could  join  its  parted  links  again. 
Too  much  of  the  wide  world  had  been 

Between  us  for  too  long  a  time ; 
And  he  had  looked  on  many  a  scene, 

The  beautiful  and  the  sublime. 
25 


194  FORGETFULNESS. 

And  he  had  themes  on  which  to  dwell, 
And  memories  that  were  not  mine, 
Which  formed  a  separating  spell, 

And  drew  a  mystic  boundary  line. 
His  thoughts  were  wanderers — and  the  things 

Which  brought  back  friendship's  joys  to  me, 
To  him  were  but  the  spirit's  wings 

Which  bore  him  o'er  the  distant  sea. 

For  he  had  seen  the  evening  star 

Glancing  its  rays  o'er  ocean's  waves. 
And  marked  the  moonbeams  from  afar, 

Lighting  the  Grecian  heroes'  graves. 
And  he  had  gazed  on  trees  and  flowers 

Beneath  Italia's  sunny  skies, 
And  listened,  in  fair  ladies'  bowers, 

To  genius'  words,  and  beauty's  sighs. 

His  steps  had  echoed  through  the  halls 

Of  grandeur,  long  left  desolate  ; 
And  he  had  climbed  the  crumbling  walls, 

Or  op'd  perforce  the  hingeless  gate  ; 
And  mused  o'er  many  an  ancient  pile, 

In  ruin  still  magnificent, 
Whose  histories  could  the  hours  beguile 

With  dreams,  before  to  fancy  lent. 

Such  recollections  come  to  him, 

With  moon,  and  stars,  and  summer  flowers ; 
To  me  they  bring  the  shadows  dim 

Of  earlier  and  of  happier  hours. 
I  would  those  shadows  darker  fell — 

For  life,  with  its  best  powers  to  bless, 
Has  but  few  memories  loved  as  well, 

Or  welcome  &s  forgetfulness. 


195 


ON  SHIP-BOARD. 

BY   THEODORE   S.    FAY. 

Now  freshening  breezes  swell  the  sail, 

Now  leans  the  vessel  to  the  gale ; 

So  slant  her  deck,  you  have  to  cling 

A  moment  to  the  nearest  thing  ; 

So  far  she  bends  into  the  deep, 

Across  her  deck  the  white  waves  sweep  ; 

Bursts  through  the  flood  the  pointed  prow, 

That  loves  the  startled  foam  to  throw, 

And  thunders  on  before  the  wind, 

Long  breaks  of  whirl  and  froth  behind  ; 

And  when  the  seas  the  bows  o'erwhelm, 

The  captain  mutters,  "  mind  your  helm  !" 

At  night,  when  stormy  shadows  fall, 

"  All  hands  on  deck,"  the  captain's  call. 

Darkness  around,  save  when  below 

Dim  light  the  bursting  billows  throw — 

And  heave  the  waves,  and  beats  the  rain — 

The  labouring  vessel  groans  with  pain ; 

Strains — lurches — thunders — rocks  and  rolls, 

We  smile — but  tremble  in  our  souls  ! 

Fierce  howls  the  blast  through  sail  and  shroud, 

And  rings  the  tempest  long  and  loud  ; 

But  sweet  the  change,  when  tranquilly 

In  sunshine  sleep  the  air  and  sea. 

Pen  may  not  paint  each  magic  dye 

On  the  soft  wave  and  sunny  sky, 

When  comes  the  charming  silent  eve, 

And  gentle  billows  idly  heave. 


196  TO   THEMIRA. 

The  liquid  floor  bends  smooth  and  bright, 

Like  molten  silver  to  the  light ; 

Till,  as  the  western  clouds  enfold 

The  fiery  sun,  it  turns  to  gold, 

And  then  a  thousand  colours,  straying 

From  heaven  to  earth,  and  sweetly  playing 

Upon  the  ocean's  giant  breast, 

Compose  his  savage  soul  to  rest. 

And  thus,  within  the  human  mind, 

When  waves  are  hushed  and  still  the  wind, 

When  passion's  storm  has  passed  away, 

And  vice  no  more  obscures  the  day, 

The  beams  of  virtue  and  of  love 

Break  softly,  falling  from  above, 

O'er  half-breathed  wordly  wishes  shine, 

And  calm  them  with  a  power  divine. 


TO    THEMIRA. 

BY   WILLIAM   LEGGETT. 

{  Written  with  French  chalk*  on  a  pane  of  glass  in  the  house  of a  friend.] 

ON  this  frail  glass,  to  others'  view, 

No  written  words  appear  ; 
They  see  the  prospect  smiling  through, 

Nor  deem  what  secret 's  here. 
But  shouldst  thou  on  the  tablet  bright 

A  single  breath  bestow, 
At  once  the  record  starts  to  sight 

Which  only  thou  must  know. 

*  The  substance  usually  called  French  chalk  has  this  singular  property,  that 
what  is  written  on  glass,  though  easily  rubbed  out  again  so  that  no  trace  re 
mains  visible,  by  being  breathed  on  becomes  immediately  distinctly  legible. 


EVENING. 

Thus,  like  this  glass,  to  stranger's  gaze 

My  heart  seemed  unimpress'd ; 
In  vain  did  beauty  round  me  blaze, 

It  could  not  warm  my  breast. 
But  as  one  breath  of  thine  can  make 

These  letters  plain  to  see, 
So  in  my  heart  did  love  awake 

When  breath'd  upon  by  thee. 


197 


EVENING. 

[From  the  Backwoodsman.} 

BY   JAMES   K.   PAULDING. 

'TWAS  sunset's  hallow'd  time — and  such  an  eve 
Might  almost  tempt  an  angel  heaven  to  leave. 
Never  did  brighter  glories  greet  the  eye, 
Low  in  the  warm  and  ruddy  western  sky : 
Nor  the  light  clouds  at  summer  eve  unfold 
More  varied  tints  of  purple,  red,  and  gold. 
Some  in  the  pure,  translucent,  liquid  breast 
Of  crystal  lake,  fast  anchor'd  seem'd  to  rest, 
Like  golden  islets  scatter'd  far  and  wide, 
By  elfin  skill  in  fancy's  fabled  tide, 
Were,  as  wild  eastern  legends  idly  feign, 
Fairy,  or  genii,  hold  despotic  reign. 
Others,  like  vessels  gilt  with  burnish'd  gold, 
Their  flitting,  airy  way  are  seen  to  hold, 
All  gallantly  equipp'd  with  streamers  gay, 
While  hands  unseen,  or  chance  directs  their  way  ; 


198  EVENING. 

Around,  athwart,  the  pure  ethereal  tide, 

With  swelling  purple  sail,  they  rapid  glide, 

Gay  as  the  bark  where  Egypt's  wanton  queen 

Reclining  on  the  shaded  deck  was  seen, 

At  which  as  gazed  the  uxorious  Roman  fool, 

The  subject  world  slipt  from  his  dotard  rule. 

Anon,  the  gorgeous  scene  begins  to  fade, 

And  deeper  hues  the  ruddy  skies  invade ; 

The  haze  of  gathering  twilight  nature  shrouds, 

And  pale,  and  paler,  wax  the  changeful  clouds. 

Then  sunk  the  breeze  into  a  breathless  calm, 

The  silent  dews  of  evening  dropt  like  balm ; 

The  hungry  night-hawk  from  his  lone  haunt  hies, 

To  chase  the  viewless  insect  through  the  skies  ; 

The  bat  began  his  lantern -loving  flight, 

The  lonely  whip-poor-will,  our  bird  of  night, 

Ever  unseen,  yet  ever  seeming  near, 

His  shrill  note  quaver'd  in  the  startled  ear ; 

The  buzzing  beetle  forth  did  gaily  hie, 

With  idle  hum,  and  careless  blundering  eye ; 

The  little  trusty  watchman  of  pale  night, 

The  firefly  trimm'd  anew  his  lamp  so  bright, 

And  took  his  merry  airy  circuit  round 

The  sparkling  meadow's  green  and  fragrant  bound, 

Where  blossom'd  clover,  bathed  in  balmy  dew, 

In  fair  luxuriance,  sweetly  blushing  grew. 


199 


THOUGHTS   ON  PARTING. 


BY    JOHN    INMAN. 


YES  !  I  will  hope,  though  fortune's  stern  decree 

From  all  I  love  commands  me  soon  to  part ; 
Nor  doubt,  though  absent,  that  a  thought  of  me 

Shall  sometimes  find  a  place  in  every  heart, 
Where  feeling  glows,  unchilled  by  time  or  art  — 

Why  should  I  doubt,  when  doubt  is  wretchedness, 
Such  as  to  feel  bids  bitter  tears  to  start 

From  eyes  that  seldom  weep,  though  tears,  perhaps, 
might  bless  ? 

It  cannot  be  that  love  like  that  which  fills 

My  soul  for  them,  should  be  bestowed  in  vain, 
When  but  the  fear  that  they  forget  me,  chills 

Each  pulse  and  feeling  —  as  the  wintry  rain 
Chills  earth  and  air,  which  yet  may  glow  again 

In  summer's  beams  —  but  what  can  joy  restore 
To  bosoms  upon  which  that  blight  has  lain  ? 

From  such  e'en  hope  departs,  and  can  return  no  more. 

For  them  I  would  have  done  —  but  let  me  not 

Such  thoughts  recall  —  could  service  e'er  repay 
The  blessings  their  companionship  has  wrought '?  — 

With  them  too  swiftly  passed  the  time  away, 
On  pleasure's  wings  —  weeks  dwindled  to  a  day, 

And  days  to  moments  —  such  the  charm  they  cast 
O'er  every  scene,  and  such  their  gentle  sway, 

Making  each  glad  hour  seem  still  brighter  than  the  last. 


200  THE    FALLS    OF    NIAGARA. 

To  them  I  turned,  as  Iran's  tameless  race 

Toward  their  refulgent  God  looked  till  the  last, 
And  died  still  gazing  on  his  radiant  face ;  — 

Alas  !  the  spring-time  of  my  year  is  past  — 
From  them  afar  my  line  of  life  is  cast, 

And  I  must  wander  now  like  one  that's  lost  — 
A  helmless  bark,  blown  wide  by  every  blast, 

And  without  hope  or  joy,  on  life's  rude  stirges  tossrdL 

Oh  no,  it  cannot  be  that  grief  like  this 

Should  be  reserved  to  blight  my  coming  years — 
That  moments  of  such  almost  perfect  bliss 

Should  be  succeeded  by  an  age  of  tears  — 
Revive,  then,  hope,  and  put  to  flight  my  fears  j 

I'll  meet  the  future  with  undaunted  eye, 
Trusting  thy  light,  that  now  my  pathway  cheers, 

Gilding  its  onward  course,  as  sunset  gilds  the  sky. 


THE    FALLS    OF    NIAGARA. 

[  Translated  from  the  Italian.*} 

BY     SAMUEL    L.     M  I  T  C  H  E  L  L  .  —  1  7  9  6  . 

BORNE  to  the  rocky  bed's  extremest  brow, 

The  flood  leaps  headlong,  nor  a  moment  waits ; — 

To  join  the  whirlpool  deep  and  vast  below, 
The  saltless  ocean  hurries  through  the  straits. 

*  The  above  lines  were  translated  by  Dr.  Mitchell,  in  October  1796,  from 
the  Italian  of  Dr.  Gian  Baptista  Scandella,  an  accomplished  gentleman,  who 
afterwards,  in  September  1798,  fell  a  victim  to  the  yellow  fever  in  the  city  of 
New  York,  just  as  he  had  finished  his  American  tour,  and  was  on  the  eve  of 
embarking  for  Europe. 


CANZONET.  201 

Hoarse  roars  the  broken  wave  ;  and  upward  driv'n, 
Dashes  in  air  ; — dissolving  vapours  press'd 

Confound  the  troubled  elements  with  heav'n  : — 

Earth  quakes  beneath  ; — heart  trembles  in  the  breast. 

With  steps  uncertain,  to  a  jutting  rock, 

To  gaze  upon  the  immense  abyss  I  hie ; 
And  all  my  senses  feel  a  horrid  shock 

As  down  the  steep  I  turn  my  dizzy  eye. 

On  cloudy  steams  I  take  a  flight  sublime, 

Leaving  the  world  and  nature's  works  behind  ; 

And  as  the  pure  empyreal  heights  I  climb, 
Reflect  with  rapture  on  the  Immortal  Mind. 


CANZONET. 

BY     J.     B.     VANSCHAICK. 

WHEN  motes,  that  dancing 

In  golden  wine, 
To  the  eyes'  glancing 

Speak  while  they  shine — 
Then,  the  draught  pouring, 

Love's  fountain  free, 
Mute,  but  adoring, 

I  drink  to  thee. 
26 


202         THE  PENNSYLVANIAN  IMMIGRANT. 

When  sleep  enchaineth, 

Sense  steals  away — 
Dream,  o'er  mind  reigneth 

With  dark  strange  sway — 
One  sweet  face  floateth 

Sleep's  misty  sea, 
Th'  unconscious  heart  doateth 

On  thee — on  thee. 


THE  PENNSYLVANIAN  IMMIGRANT. 

[From  the  Backwoodsman.} 


BY  J.  K.  PAULDING. 


Now  all  through  Pennsylvania's  pleasant  Iand3 
Unheeded  pass'd  our  little  roving  band, 
— For  every  soul  had  something  here  to  do, 
Nor  turn'd  aside  our  cavalcade  to  view — 
By  Bethlehem,  where  Moravian  exiles  'bide, 
In  rural  paradise,  on  Lehigh's  side, 
And  York  and  Lancaster — whose  rival  rose 
In  this  good  land,  no  bloody  discord  knows. 
Not  such  their  fate  ! — the  ever  grateful  soil 
Rewards  the  blue-eyed  German's  patient  toil ; 
Richer  and  rounder  every  year  he  grows, 
Nor  other  ills  his  stagnant  bosom  knows 
Than  caitiff  grub,  or  cursed  Hessian  fly, 
Mildews,  and  smuts,  a  dry  or  humid  sky  ; 
Before  he  sells,  the  market's  sudden  fall, 
Or  sudden  rise,  when  sold — still  worse  than  all ! 


LAKE    GEORGE 1829.  203 

Calmly  he  lives — the  tempest  of  the  mind. 
That  marks  its  course  by  many  a  wreck  behind  ; 
The  purpose  high  that  great  ambition  feels, 
Sometimes  perchance  upon  his  vision  steals, 
But  never  in  his  sober  waking  thought 
One  stirring,  active  impulse  ever  wrought. 
Calmly  he  lives — as  free  from  good  as  blame, 
His  home,  his  dress,  his  equipage  the  same ; 
And  when  he  dies,  in  sooth,  'tis  soon  forgot 
What  once  he  was,  or  what  he  once  was  not — 
An  honest  man,  perhaps, — 'tis  somewhat  odd 
That  such  should  be  the  noblest  work  of  God  ! 

So  have  I  seen,  in  garden  rich  and  gay, 
A  stately  cabbage  waxing  fat  each  day ; 
Unlike  the  lively  foliage  of  the  trees, 
Its  stubborn  leaves  ne'er  wave  in  summer  breeze, 
Nor  flower,  like  those  that  prank  the  walks  around, 
Upon  its  clumsy  stem  is  ever  found ; 
It  heeds  not  noontide  heats,  nor  evening's  balm, 
And  stands  unmoved  in  one  eternal  calm. 
At  last,  when  all  the  garden's  pride  is  lost 
It  ripens  in  drear  autumn's  killing  frost, 
And  in  a  savoury  sourkrout  finds  its  end. 
From  which  detested  dish,  me  heaven  defend  ! 


LAKE    GEORGE.  — 1829 

BY    S.    DE    WITT   BLOODGOOD. 

I  STOOD  upon  the  shore, 
And  looked  upon  the  wave, 

While  I  thought  me  o'er  and  o'er 
HERE  SLEEP  THE  BRAVE  ! 


204  CROSSING    THE    ALLEGHANIES. 

The  shadow  of  the  hills, 
The  azure  of  the  flood, 

The  murmuring  of  the  rills 
Recall  a  scene  of  blood. 

When  the  war-cry  filled  the  breeze, 
And  the  rifle  and  the  bow 

Were  like  leaves  upon  the  trees, 
But  did  not  daunt  Munro  ! 

'Mid  the  thunders  of  the  train, 
And  the  fires  that  flashed  alarm  ! 

And  the  shouts  that  rent  the  plain, 
To  battle  rush'd  Montcalm  ! 

But  the  red  cross  floats  no  more 

Upon  the  ruin'd  walls, 
And  the  wind  sighs  on  the  shore, 

Like  the  noise  of  waterfalls. 

And  the  spirit  of  the  hour 

Is  as  peaceful  as  yon  wave, 
While  pleasure  builds  its  bower 

O'ER  THE    ASHES    OF    THE    BRAVE. 


CROSSING    THE   ALLEGHANIES 

,  [From  the  Backwoodsman.] 


BY   J.    K.    PAULDING. 


OUR  Basil  beat  the  lazy  sun  next  day, 
And  bright  and  early  had  been  on  his  way. 
But  that  the  world  he  saw  e'en  yesternight, 
Seem'd  faded  like  a  vision  from  his  sight. 


CROSSING    THE    ALLEGHANIES.  205 

One  endless  chaos  spread  before  his  eyes, 
No  vestige  left  of  earth  or  azure  skies, 
A  boundless  nothingness  reign'd  everywhere, 
Hid  the  green  fields  and  silent  all  the  air. 
As  look'd  the  traveller  for  the  world  below, 
The  lively  morning  breeze  began  to  blow, 
The  magic  curtain  roll'd  in  mists  away. 
And  a  gay  landscape  laugh'd  upon  the  day. 
As  light  the  fleeting  vapours  upward  glide, 
Like  sheeted  spectres  on  the  mountain  side, 
New  objects  open  to  his  wondering  view 
Of  various  form,  and  combinations  new. 
A  rocky  precipice,  a  waving  wood, 
Deep  winding  dell,  and  foaming  mountain  flood, 
Each  after  each,  with  coy  and  sweet  delay, 
Broke  on  his  sight,  as  at  young  dawn  of  day, 
Bounded  afar  by  peak  aspiring  bold, 
Like  giant  capt  with  helm  of  burnish'd  gold. 
So  when  the  wandering  grandsire  of  our  race 
On  Ararat  had  found  a  resting  place, 
At  first  a  shoreless  ocean  met  his  eye, 
Mingling  on  every  side  with  one  blue  sky ; 
But  as  the  waters,  every  passing  day, 
Sunk  in  the  earth  or  roll'd  in  mists  away, 
Gradual,  the  lofty  hills,  like  islands,  peep 
From  the  rough  bosom  of  the  boundless  deep, 
Then  the  round  hillocks,  and  the  meadows  green, 
Each  after  each,  in  freshen'd  bloom  are  seen, 
Till,  at  the  last,  a  fair  and  finish'd  whole 
Combined  to  win  the  gazing  patriarch's  soul. 
Yet  oft  he  look'd,  I  ween,  with  anxious  eye, 
In  lingering  hope  somewhere,  perchance,  to  spy, 
Within  the  silent  world,  some  living  thing, 
Crawling  on  earth,  or  moving  on  the  wing, 
Or  man,  or  beast — alas  !  was  neither  there, 
Nothing  that  breathed  of  life  in  earth  or  air ; 


206  THE    CLOUDS. 

'Twas  a  vast  silent  mansion  rich  and  gay, 

Whose  occupant  was  drown'd  the  other  day ; 

A  church-yard,  where  the  gayest  flowers  oft  bloom 

Amid  the  melancholy  of  the  tomb  ; 

A  charnel  house,  where  all  the  human  race 

Had  piled  their  bones  in  one  wide  resting  place  ; 

Sadly  he  turn'd  from  such  a  sight  of  wo, 

And  sadly  sought  the  lifeless  world  below. 


THE    CLOUDS  . 

BY    GEORGE   D.    STRONG. 

How  beauteous  o'er  the  blue  expanse 

Pencilling  their  shadows  on  the  evening  sky, 
The  gathering  clouds  with  gauze-wings  unfold 

Their  heaven  wove  tapestry  : 
Veiling  in  mist  the  dim  and  wearied  sun, 
Ere  yet  the  drapery  of  his  couch  is  won  ! 

Behold  !  behold  them  now  ! 

Tossing  their  gold-edged  tresses  on  the  breeze  ! 
Gliding  like  angels  o'er  the  star-gemmed  floor 

To  heavenly  symphonies ! 

While  distant  seen,  like  hope  to  faith's  clear  view, 
Sleeps  in  calm  splendour  the  cerulean  blue  ! 

Ere  yet  imagination's  wand 

Has  traced  the  vision  on  the  teeming  brain, 
The  fleeting  pageant  floats  in  mist,  away 

Beyond  the  billowy  main  : 

But  forms  more  beauteous  wing  again  their  flight, 
While  eve  reposes  on  the  lap  of  night. 


THE    CLOUDS.  207 

Yon  castellated  tower 

As  proudly  cuts  its  turrets  on  the  sky, 
As  if  the  portals  of  its  airy  halls 
Blazoned  with  heraldry  ! 
And  who  shall  say,  but  in  its  chambers  glide 
Pale  courtier's  shadows — disembodied  pride  ? 

The  mimic  ship  unfolds 

Her  swelling  canvass  on  the  airy  main  ; 
And  horsemen  sweep  in  graceful  circles  o'er 

Th'  etherial  plain : 

While  forms  of  light  unknown  to  mortals  here, 
People  in  myriads  the  celestial  sphere  ! 

And  many-coloured  flowers, 

Changing  their  hues  with  every  passing  breeze. 
Crown  the  far  summits  of  the  mountain  steeps  ; 

The  shadowy  trees 

Fling  their  gigantic  branches  wide  and  far, 
Dimming  the  lustre  of  full  many  a  star. 

How  oft  in  childhood's  hour 

I've  watched  the  cloudlets  pale  the  evening  beam, 
While  the  bright  day-god  quenched  his  waning  fires 

In  ocean,  pool,  and  stream. 
Oh,  then  the  clouds  were  ministers  of  joy 
To  the  rapt  spirit  of  the  dreamy  boy  ! 

Mother  and  sister  !  Ye 

Have  passed  from  earth  like  suns  untimely  set ! 
Do  ye  not  look  from  yonder  throne  of  clouds 

Upon  me  yet, 

Beckoning  me  now,  with  eager  glance  to  come 
To  the  bright  portals  of  your  heavenly  home  ? 


208  THE    TORNADO. 

Skeptic  !  whose  chilling  creed 

Would  chain  the  spirit  to  life's  bounded  span. 
Learn  from  the  clouds  that  upward  poise  their  wing, 

To  value  man ! 

Nor  deem  the  soul  divested  of  its  shroud — 
Less  glorious  in  its  essence  than  a  cloud ! 


THE    TORNADO. 

[From  the  Backwoodsman.] 

BY   J.    K.    PAULDING. 

Now  down  the  mountain's  rugged  western  side, 
Descending  slow,  our  lonely  travellers  hied, 
Deep  in  a  narrow  glen,  within  whose  breast 
The  rolling  fragments  of  the  mountain  rest ; 
Rocks  tumbled  on  each  other  by  rude  chance, 
Crown'd  with  grey  fern,  and  mosses,  met  the  glance, 
Through  which  a  brawling  river  braved  its  way, 
Dashing  among  the  rocks  in  foamy  spray. 
Here,  'mid  the  fragments  of  a  broken  world, 
In  wild  and  rough  confusion,  idly  hurl'd, 
Where  ne'er  was  heard  the  woodman's  echoing  stroke, 
Rose  a  huge  forest  of  gigantic  oak ; 
With  heads  that  tower'd  half  up  the  mountain's  side, 
And  arms  extending  round  them  far  and  wide, 
They  look'd  coeval  with  old  mother  earth, 
And  seem'd  to  claim  with  her  an  equal  birth. 
There,  by  a  lofty  rock's  moss-mantled  base, 
Our  tired  adventurers  found  a  resting  place  ; 


THE    TORNADO.  209 

Beneath  its  dark,  o'erhanging,  sullen  brow, 
The  little  bevy  nestled  snug  below, 
And  with  right  sturdy  appetite,  and  strong, 
Devour'd  the  rustic  meal  they  brought  along. 

The  squirrel  eyed  them  from  his  lofty  tree, 
And  chirp'd  as  wont,  with  merry  morning  glee  ; 
The  woodcock  crow'd  as  if  alone  he  were, 
Or  heeded  not  the  strange  intruders  there, 
Sure  sign  they  little  knew  of  man's  proud  race 
In  that  sequester 'd  mountain  'biding  place  ; 
For  wheresoe'er  his  wandering  footsteps  tend, 
Man  never  makes  the  rural  train  his  friend ; 
Acquaintance  that  brings  other  beings  near, 
Produces  nothing  but  distrust  or  fear  : 
Beasts  flee  from  man  the  more  his  heart  they  know, 
And  fears,  at  last,  to  fix'd  aversion  grow, 
As  thus  in  blithe  serenity  they  sat, 
Beguiling  resting  time  with  lively  chat, 
A  distant,  half  heard  murmur  caught  the  ear, 
Each  moment  waxing  louder  and  more  near, 
A  dark  obscurity  spread  all  around, 
And  more  than  twilight  seem'd  to  veil  the  ground, 
While  not  a  leaf  e'en  of  the  aspen  stirr'd, 
And  not  a  sound  but  that  low  moan  was  heard. 
There  is  a  moment  when  the  boldest  heart 
That  would  not  stoop  an  inch  to  'scape  death's  dart, 
That  never  shrunk  from  certain  danger  here, 
Will  quail  and  shiver  with  an  aguish  fear  j 
'Tis  when  some  unknown  mischief  hovers  nigh, 
And  heaven  itself  seems  threatening  from  on  high. 

Brave  was  our  Basil,  as  became  a  man, 
Yet  still  his  blood  a  little  cooler  ran, 
'Twixt  fear  and  wonder,  at  that  murmur  drear, 
That  every  moment  wax'd  more  loud  and  near. 
27 


210  THE    TORNADO. 

The  riddle  soon  was  read — at  last  it  came, 
And  nature  trembled  to  her  inmost  frame ; 
The  forest  roar'd,  the  everlasting  oak. 
In  writhing  agonies  the  storm  bespoke, 
The  live  leaves  scatter'd  wildly  everywhere, 
Whirl'd  round  in  maddening  circles  in  the  air ; 
The  stoutest  limbs  were  scatter'd  all  around, 
The  stoutest  trees  a  stouter  master  found, 
Crackling,  and  crashing,  down  they  thundering  go, 
And  seem  to  crush  the  shrinking  rocks  below : 
Then  the  thick  rain  in  gathering  torrents  pour'd, 
Higher  the  river  rose,  and  louder  roar'd, 
And  on  its  dark,  quick  eddying  surface  bore 
The  gather'd  spoils  of  earth  along  its  shore, 
While  trees  that  not  an  hour  before  had  stood 
The  lofty  monarchs  of  the  stately  wood, 
Now  whirling  round  and  round  with  furious  force, 
Dash  'gainst  the  rocks  that  breast  the  torrent's  force, 
And  shiver  like  a  reed  by  urchin  broke 
Through  idle  mischief,  or  with  heedless  stroke ; 
A  hundred  cataracts,  unknown  before, 
Rush  down  the  mountain's  side  with  fearful  roar, 
And  as  with  foaming  fury  down  they  go, 
Loose  the  firm  rocks  and  thunder  them  below  ; 
Blue  lightnings  from  the  dark  cloud's  bosom  sprung, 
Like  serpents,  menacing  with  forked  tongue, 
While  many  a  sturdy  oak  that  stiffly  braved 
The  threatening  hurricane  that  round  it  raved, 
Shiver'd  beneath  its  bright,  resistless  flash, 
Came  tumbling  down  amain  with  fearful  crash. 
Air,  earth,  and  skies,  seem'd  now  to  try  their  power, 
And  struggle  for  the  mastery  of  the  hour  ; 
Higher  the  waters  rose,  and  blacker  still, 
And  threaten'd  soon  the  narrow  vale  to  fill. 


211 


TO   A   LADY. 

BY    CLEMENT   C.    MOORE. — 1804. 

THY  dimpled  girls  and  rosy  boys 
Rekindle  in  thy  heart  the  joys 

That  bless'd  thy  tender  years  : 
Unheeded  fleet  the  hours  away ; 
For,  while  thy  cherubs  round  thee  play, 

New  life  thy  bosom  cheers. 

Once  more,  thou  tell'st  me,  I  may  taste, 
Ere  envious  time  this  frame  shall  waste, 

My  infant  pleasures  flown. 
Ah  !  there  's  a  ray  of  lustre  mild, 
Illumes  the  bosom  of  a  child, 

To  age,  alas  !  scarce  known. 

Not  for  my  infant  pleasures  past 

I  mourn  ;  those  joys  which  flew  so  fast, 

They,  too,  had  many  a  stain ; 
But  for  the  mind,  so  pure  and  light, 
"Which  made  those  joys  so  fair,  so  bright, 

I  sigh,  and  sigh  in  vain. 

Well  I  remember  you,  bless'd  hours ! 

Your  sunbeams  bright,  your  transient  showers ! 

Thoughtless  I  saw  you  fly ; 
For  distant  ills  then  caus'd  no  dread ; 
Nor  cared  I  for  the  moments  fled, 

For  memory  call'd  no  sigh. 


212  TO    A    LADY. 

Fond  parents  swayed  my  every  thought; 
No  blame  I  feared,  no  praise  I  sought, 

But  what  their  love  bestowed. 
Full  soon  I  learn'd  each  meaning  look, 
Nor  e'er  the  angry  glance  mistook 

For  that  where  rapture  glowed. 

Whene'er  night's  shadows  called  to  rest, 
I  sought  my  father,  to  request 

His  benediction  mild. 
A  mother's  love  more  loud  would  speak ; 
With  kiss  on  kiss  she  'd  print  my  cheek, 

And  bless  her  darling  child. 

Thy  lightest  mists  and  clouds,  sweet  sleep  ! 
Thy  purest  opiates  thou  dost  keep, 

On  infancy  to  shed. 

No  guilt  there  checks  thy  soft  embrace, 
And  not  e'en  tears  and  sobs  can  chase 

Thee  from  an  infant's  bed. 

The  trickling  tears  which  flow'd  at  night, 
Oft  hast  thou  stay'd,  till  morning  light 

Dispell'd  my  little  woes. 
So  fly  before  the  sunbeam's  power 
The  remnants  of  the  evening  shower 

Which  wet  the  early  rose. 

Farewell,  bless'd  hours  !  full  fast  ye  flew; 
And  that  which  made  your  bliss  so  true 

Ye  would  not  leave  behind. 
The  glow  of  youth  ye  could  not  leave  ; 
But  why,  why  cruelly  bereave 

Me  of  my  artless  mind  ? 


TO    A    LADY.  213 

Fond  mother  !  hope  thy  bosom  warms, 
That  on  the  prattler  in  thy  arms 

Heaven's  choicest  gifts  may  flow. 
Thus  let  thy  prayer  incessant  rise 
To  Him,  who,  thron'd  above  the  skies, 

Can  feel  for  man  below. 

"  Oh  !  Thou,  whose  view  is  ne'er  estranged 
"  From  innocence,  preserve  unchang'd 

"  Through  life  my  darling's  mind  ; 
"  Unchang'd  in  truth  and  purity, 
"  Still  fearless  of  futurity, 

"  Still  artless,  though  refin'd. 

"  As  oft  his  anxious  nurse  hath  caught 
"  And  sav'd  his  little  hand  that  sought 

"  The  bright,  but  treacherous  blaze ; 
"  So,  let  fair  Wisdom  keep  him  sure 
"  From  glittering  vices  which  allure, 

"  Through  life's  delusive  maze. 

"  Oh  !  may  the  ills  which  man  enshroud, 
t:  As  shadows  of  a  transient  cloud, 

"  But  shade,  not  stain  my  boy. 
"  Then  may  he  gently  drop  to  rest, 
"  Calm  as  a  child  by  sleep  oppress'd, 

"  And  wake  to  endless  joy." 


214 


SPRING    IS    COMING. 

BY     JAMES     NACK. 

SPRING  is  coming,  spring  is  coming, 
Birds  are  chirping,  insects  humming  ; 
Flowers  are  peeping  from  their  sleeping, 
Streams  escaped  from  winter's  keeping. 
In  delighted  freedom  rushing, 
Dance  along  in  music  gushing, 
Scenes  of  late  in  deadness  saddened, 
Smile  in  animation  gladdened  ; 
All  is  beauty,  all  is  mirth, 
All  is  glory  upon  earth. 
Shout  we  then  with  Nature's  voice, 
Welcome  Spring  !  rejoice  !  rejoice  ! 

Spring  is  coming,  come,  my  brother. 
Let  us  rove  with  one  another, 
To  our  well-remembered  wild  wood, 
Flourishing  in  nature's  childhood  ; 
Where  a  thousand  flowers  are  springing, 
And  a  thousand  birds  are  singing  ; 
Where  the  golden  sunbeams  quiver 
On  the  verdure-girdled  river  ; 
Let  our  youth  of  feeling  out, 
To  the  youth  of  nature  shout, 
While  the  waves  repeat  our  voice, 
Welcome  Spring  !  rejoice  !  rejoice  ! 


215 


FROM  A  FATHER  TO  HIS  CHILDREN, 


AFTER    HAVING    HAD    HIS    PORTRAIT    TAKEN    FOR    THEM. 


BY   C.    C.    MOORE. 


THIS  semblance  of  your  parent's  time-worn  face 
Is  but  a  sad  bequest,  my  children  dear  : 

Its  youth  and  freshness  gone,  and  in  their  place 
The  lines  of  care,  the  tracks  of  many  a  tear ! 

Amid  life's  wreck,  we  struggle  to  secure 
Some  floating  fragment  from  oblivion's  wave  : 

We  pant  for  somewhat  that  may  still  endure, 
And  snatch  at  least  a  shadow  from  the  grave. 

Poor,  weak,  and  transient  mortals  !  why  so  vain 
Of  manly  vigour  or  of  beauty's  bloom? 

An  empty  shade  for  ages  may  remain 

When  we  have  mouldered  in  the  silent  tomb. 

But  no  !  it  is  not  we  who  moulder  there  ; 

We,  of  essential  light  that  ever  burns, 
We  take  our  way  through  untried  fields  of  air, 

When  to  the  earth  this  earth-born  frame  returns. 

And  'tis  the  glory  of  the  master's  art 
Some  radiance  of  this  inward  light  to  find  ; 

Some  touch  that  to  his  canvass  may  impart 
A  breath,  a  sparkle  of  the  immortal  mind. 


216  FROM    A    FATHER    TO    HIS    CHILDREN. 

Alas  !  the  pencil's  noblest  power  can  show 
But  some  faint  shadow  of  a  transient  thought, 

Some  waken'd  feeling's  momentary  glow, 
Some  swift  impression  in  its  passage  caught. 

Oh  !  that  the  artist's  pencil  could  pourtray 
A  father's  inward  bosom  to  your  eyes  ; 

What  hopes,  and  fears,  and  doubts  perplex  his  way, 
What  aspirations  for  your  welfare  rise. 

Then  might  this  unsubstantial  image  prove, 
When  I  am  gone,  a  guardian  of  your  youth, 

A  friend  for  ever  urging  you  to  move 
In  paths  of  honour,  holiness,  and  truth. 

Let  fond  imagination's  power  supply 

The  void  that  baffles  all  the  painter's  art ; 

And  when  those  mimic  features  meet  your  eye, 
Then  fancy  that  they  speak  a  parent's  heart. 

Think  that  you  still  can  trace  within  those  eyes 

The  kindling  of  affection's  fervid  beam, 

The  searching  glance  that  every  fault  espies, 

The  fond  anticipation's  pleasing  dream. 

Fancy  those  lips  still  utter  sounds  of  praise, 

Or  kind  reproof  that  checks  each  wayward  will, 

The  warning  voice,  or  precepts  that  may  raise 
Your  thoughts  above  this  treach'rous  world  of  ill. 

And  thus  shall  Art  attain  her  loftiest  power ; 

To  noblest  purpose  shall  her  efforts  tend  : 
Not  the  companion  of  an  idle  hour, 

But  Virtue's  handmaid  and  Religion's  friend. 


217 


THE    MITCHELLA. 

BY   S.   L.    MITCHELL. 

[The  Mitchella  is  a  very  delicate  flower,  a  native  of  our  woods,  and  although 
originally  named  from  another  botanist  called  Mitchell,  was  always  a  great  fa 
vourite  of  Dr.  S.  L.  Mitchill.  The  "double  nature"  alluded  to  in  the  poem  re 
fers  to  the  fact  of  the  flowers  uniformly  growing  in  pairs.] 

SEQUESTERED  safe  beneath  the  sylvan  bow'rs, 
Lo  !  fair  Mitchella  spends  her  joyous  hours. 
The  double  nature  on  her  form  bestow'd 
Displays  a  winning  and  peculiar  mode. 
With  lilac  wreath  her  beauteous  front  is  grac'd, 
A  crimson  zone  surrounds  her  slender  waist ; 
A  robe  of  green  trails  sweeping  o'er  the  ground, 
And  scents  ambrosial  fill  the  air  around — 
Thus  Proserpine  o'er  Enna's  precincts  stray 'd 
Till  gloomy  Dis  surpris'd  the  unthinking  maid. 
From  Earth  to  Tartarus  transferr'd,  in  vain 
She  intercedes  her  native  home  to  gain. 
Jove  grants  in  part  her  pray'r  :  above  to  know 
One  half  the  year,  the  rest  to  pass  below : 
And  Ceres  sees  her  daughter's  two-fold  mien, 
On  Earth  a  nymph,  in  Pluto's  realms  a  queen. 


A   VISIT    FROM  ST.   NICHOLAS 


BY    CLEMENT    C.    MOORE. 


'TWAS  the  night  before  Christmas,  when  all  through  the  house 
Not  a  creature  was  stirring,  not  even  a  mouse ; 
The  stockings  were  hung  by  the  chimney  with  care, 
In  hopes  that  St.  Nicholas  soon  would  be  there ; 

28 


« 

A    VISIT    FROM    ST.    NICHOLAS. 

The  children  were  nestled  all  snug  in  their  beds, 

While  visions  of  sugar-plums  danced  through  their  heads  ; 

And  mamma  in  her  'kerchief,  and  I  in  my  cap, 

Had  just  settled  our  brains  for  a  long  winter's  nap— 

When  out  on  the  lawn  there  arose  such  a  clatter, 

I  sprang  from  the  bed  to  see  what  was  the  matter  : 

Away  to  the  window  I  flew  like  a  flash, 

Tore  open  the  shutters  and  threw  up  the  sash. 

The  moon,  on  the  breast  of  the  new-fallen  snow, 

Gave  the  lustre  of  mid-day  to  objects  below. 

When,  what  to  my  wondering  eyes  should  appear, 

But  a  miniature  sleigh  and  eight  tiny  rein-deer, 

With  a  little  old  driver,  so  lively  and  quick, 

I  knew  in  a  moment  it  must  be  St.  Nick. 

More  rapid  than  eagles  his  coursers  they  came, 

And  he  whistled,  and  shouted,  and  called  them  by  name  ; 

"  Now,  Dasher  !  now,  Dancer  !  now,  Prancer  !  now,  Vixen  ! 

On  !  Comet,  on  !  Cupid,  on  !  Donder  and  Blixen — 

To  the  top  of  the  porch  !  to  the  top  of  the  wall ! 

Now,  dash  away,  dash  away,  dash  away  all !" 

As  leaves  that  before  the  wild  hurricane  fly, 

When  they  meet  with  an  obstacle,  mount  to  the  sky, 

So,  up  to  the  house-top  the  coursers  they  flew, 

With  the  sleigh  full  of  toys — and  St.  Nicholas  too. 

And  then  in  a  twinkling  I  heard  on  the  roof 

The  prancing  and  pawing  of  each  little  hoof. 

As  I  drew  in  my  head,  and  was  turning  around, 

Down  the  chimney  St.  Nicholas  came  with  a  bound. 

He  was  dressed  all  in  fur,  from  his  head  to  his  foot, 

And  his  clothes  were  all  tarnish'd  with  ashes  and  soot ; 

A  bundle  of  toys  he  had  flung  on  his  back, 

And  he  look'd  like  a  pedlar  just  opening  his  pack. 

His  eyes — how  they  twinkled  !  his  dimples,  how  merry ! 

His  cheeks  were  like  roses,  his  nose  like  a  cherry ; 


ON    SEEING    A    BEAUTIFUL    YOUNG    LADY,  ETC.  219 

His  droll  little  mouth  was  drawn  up  like  a  bow, 
And  the  beard  on  his  chin  was  as  white  as  the  snow. 
The  stump  of  a  pipe  he  held  tight  in  his  teeth, 
And  the  smoke,  it  encircled  his  head  like  a  wreath. 
He  had  a  broad  face  and  a  little  round  belly 
That  shook,  when  he  laugh'd,  like  a  bowl  full  of  jelly. 
He  was  chubby  and  plump  ;  a  right  jolly  old  elf ; 
And  I  laughed  when  I  saw  him,  in  spite  of  myself. 
A  wink  of  his  eye,  and  a  twist  of  his  head, 
Soon  gave  me  to  know  I  had  nothing  to  dread. 
He  spoke  not  a  word,  but  went  straight  to  his  work. 
And  filled  all  the  stockings  ;  then  turned  with  a  jirk, 
And  laying  his  finger  aside  of  his  nose, 
And  giving  a  nod,  up  the  chimney  he  rose. 
He  sprang  to  his  sleigh,  to  his  team  gave  a  whistle, 
And  away  they  all  flew  like  the  down  of  a  thistle ; 
But  I  heard  him  exclaim  ere  he  drove  out  of  sight, 
"  Happy  Christmas  to  all,  and  to  all  a  good  night !" 


ON  SEEING  A  BEAUTIFUL  YOUNG  LADY 

WHOSE    HEALTH    WAS    IMPAIRED    BY    THE    AGUE    AND    FEVFR, 

BY   A.   L.   BLAUVELT. — 1805. 

DARK  minister  of  many  woes, 
That  lov'st  the  sad  vicissitude  of  pain, 

Now  shivering  'mid  Antarctic  snows, 
Now  a  faint  pilgrim  on  Medina's  plain. 

Say,  can  no  form  less  fair  thy  vein  engage  ? 

Must  feeble  loveliness  exhaust  thy  rage  ? 


220  THE    GIFTS    OF    PROVIDENCE. 

Oh,  mark  the  faltering  step,  the  languid  eye, 

And  all  the  anguish  of  her  hurning  s'^h  : 

See  the  faintly  struggling  smile, 

See  resignation's  tear  the  while  ; 

So  to  the  axe  the  martyr  bends  his  form, 

So  bends  the  lovely  lily  to  the  storm. 

Still  though,  sweet  maid,  thy  yielding  bloom  decays, 

And  faint  the  waning  tide  of  rap  ure  strays, 

Oh,  may'st  thou  'scape  griefs  more  envenom'd  smart, 

Nor  ever  know  the  ague  of  the  heart. 

For  rising  from  the  sun  bright  plain, 

The  bended  lily  blooms  again ; 

But  ah  !  what  life  imparting  power 

Can  e'er  revive  the  broken  flower  ? 


THE  GIFTS  OF  PROVIDENCE. 

BY   WILLIAM   LIVINGSTON. — 1747. 

OFT  on  the  vilest  riches  are  bestow'd, 
To  show  their  meanness  in  the  sight  of  God. 
High  from  a  dunghill  see  a  Dives  rise, 
And,  Titan-like,  insult  the  avenging  skies : 
The  crowd  in  adulation  calls  him  lord, 
By  thousands  courted,  flatter'd,  and  adored : 
In  riot  plunged,  and  drunk  with  earthly  joys, 
No  higher  thought  his  grovelling  soul  employs  ; 
The  poor  he  scourges  with  an  iron  rod, 
And  from  his  bosom  banishes  his  God. 


FROM    A    HUSBAND    TO    HIS    WIFE.  221 

But  oft,  in  height  of  wealth  and  beauty's  bloom, 
Deluded  man  is  fated  to  the  tomb ! 
For  lo,  he  sickens,  swift  his  colour  flies, 
And  rising  mists  obscure  his  swimming  eyes  : 
Around  his  bed  his  weeping  friends  bemoan, 
Extort  the  unwilling  tear,  and  wish  him  gone; 
His  sorrowing  heir  augments  the  tender  shower, 
Deplores  his  death — yet  hails  the  dying  hour. 
Ah,  bitter  comfort !  sad  relief  to  die  ! 
Though  sunk  in  down,  beneath  a  canopy  ! 
His  eyes  no  more  shall  see  the  cheerful  light, 
Weigh'd  down  by  death  in  everlasting  night : 
And  now  the  great,  the  rich,  the  proud,  the  gay, 
Lies  breathless,  cold — unanimated  clay  ! 
He  that  just  now  was  flatter'd  by  the  crowd 
With  high  applause  and  acclamation  loud  ; 
That  steel'd  his  bosom  to  the  orphan's  cries, 
And  drew  down  torrents  from  the  widow's  eyes ; 
Whom,  like  a  God,  the  rabble  did  adore — 
Regard  him  now — and  lo  !  he  is  no  more. 


FROM   A  HUSBAND   TO  HIS    WIFE 


BY    C.    C.    MOORE. 


THE  dreams  of  Hope  that  round  us  play, 
And  lead  along  our  early  youth, 

How  soon,  alas  !  they  fade  away 
Before  the  sober  rays  of  Truth. 


222          FROM  A  HUSBAND  TO  HIS  WIFE. 

And  yet  there  are  some  joys  in  life 
That  Fancy's  pencil  never  drew; 

For  Fancy's  self,  my  own  dear  wife, 
Ne'er  dreamt  the  bliss  I  owe  to  you. 

You  have  awaken'd  in  my  breast 

Some  chords  I  ne'er  before  had  known  ; 

And  you've  imparted  to  the  rest 
A  stronger  pulse,  a  deeper  tone. 

And  e'en  the  troubles  that  we  find 

Our  peace  oft  threat'ning  to  o'erwhelm, 

Like  foreign  foes,  but  serve  to  bind 
More  close  in  love  our  little  realm. 

'     I've  not  forgot  the  magic  hour 

When  youthful  passion  first  I  knew  ; 
When  early  love  was  in  its  flower, 
And  bright  with  ev'ry  rainbow  hue. 

Then,  fairy  visions  lightly  moved, 
And  waken'd  rapture  as  they  pass'd ; 

But  faith  and  love,  like  yours  approved, 
Give  joys  that  shall  for  ever  last. 

A  spotless  wife's  enduring  love, 
A  darling  infant's  balmy  kiss, 

Breathe  of  the  happiness  above  ; 
Too  perfect  for  a  world  like  this. 

These  heaven-sent  pleasures  seem  too  pure 
To  take  a  taint  from  mortal  breath  ; 

For,  still  unfading,  they  endure 

'Mid  sorrow,  sickness,  pain,  and  death. 


X 

FROM    A    HUSBAND    TO   HIS    WIFE.  223 

When  cruel  Palsy's  withering  blow 

Had  left  my  father  weak,  forlorn, 
He  yet  could  weep  for  joy,  to  know 

I  had  a  wish'd-for  infant  born. 

And,  as  he  lay  in  death's  embrace, 

You  saw  when  last  on  earth  he  smil'd ; 

You  saw  the  ray  that  lit  his  face 

When  he  beheld  our  darling  child. — 

Strange,  mingled  scene  of  bliss  and  pain  ! 

That,  like  a  dream,  before  us  flies ; 
Where,  'midst  illusions  false  and  vain, 

Substantial  joys  are  seen  to  rise. — 

When  to  your  heart  our  babes  you  fold, 

With  all  a  mother's  joy  elate, 
I  fondly  think  that  I  behold 

A  vision  of  our  future  state. 

Hope  comes,  with  balmy  influence  fraught, 
To  heal  the  wound  that  rends  my  heart, 

Whene'er  it  meets  the  dreadful  thought 
That  all  our  earthly  ties  must  part. 

Bless'd  hope,  beyond  earth's  narrow  space, 
Within  high  Heaven's  eternal  bound, 

Again  to  see  your  angel  face, 

With  all  your  cherubs  clustering  round. 

Oh  !  yes,  there  are  some  beams  of  light 

That  break  upon  this  world  below, 
So  pure,  so  steady,  and  so  bright, 

They  seem  from  better  worlds  to  flow. 


224  PROPHETIC. 

Reflected  images  are  seen 

Upon  this  transient  stream  of  Time, 

Through  mists  and  shades  that  intervene, 
Of  things  eternal  and  sublime. 

Then  let  us  rightly  learn  to  know 
These  heavenly  messengers  of  love  : 

They  teach  us  whence  .true  pleasures  flow, 
And  win  our  thoughts  to  joys  above. 

And  e'en  when  clouds  roll  o'er  our  head, 
Still  let  us  turn  our  longing  eyes 

To  where  Eternal  Love  has  spread 
The  changeless  azure  of  the  skies. 


PROPHETIC. 

[Lines  written  on  the  window-glass  of  an  Inn  in  England  during  the  author's 
travels  through  Europe  in  1774 — 5.  % 

BY    GULIAN   VERPLANCK. 

HAIL  happy  Britain,  Freedom's  blest  retreat ; 

Great  is  thy  power,  thy  wealth,  thy  glory  great, 

But  wealth  and  power  have  no  immortal  day, 

For  all  things  ripen  only  to  decay. 

And  when  that  time  arrives,  the  lot  of  all, 

When  Britain's  glory,  power,  and  wealth  shall  fall ; 

Then  shall  thy  sons  by  Fate's  unchang'd  decree 

In  other  worlds  another  Britain  see, 

And  what  thou  art,  America  shall  be. 


225 
LINES 

[Suggested  by  a  Perusal  of  "  The  Life  of  Ckatterton"] 

BY   A.    L.   BLAUVELT. 

AND  yet  there  are,  who,  borne  on  fortune's  tide, 

Down  the  smooth  vale  of  time  unconscious  glide ; 

Ne'er  dream  of  wretchedness  when  they  repose, 

Nor  wake  to  other  cares,  to  other  woes. 

And  when  the  north  wind  rages  through  the  sky, 

Withhold  from  bleeding  poverty  a  sigh  ; 

Leave  those  to  weep,  who,  torn  from  all  held  dear, 

In  want  and  silence  shed  the  frequent  tear  ; 

Who,  reared  'mid  fortune's  noon,  ill  brook  the  shade, 

And  feel  with  tenfold  sense  its  damps  invade ; 

Feel  more  than  chilling  frost  neglects  control, 

And  all  the  horrors  of  a  wintry  soul ; 

For  ah ;  how  oft  from  penury's  cold  grave, 

Nor  worth  nor  all  the  power  of  mind  can  save  ? 

Condemned  through  life  a  ceaseless  war  to  wage 

With  all  the  pride  and  dulness  of  the  age ; 

Still  vain  each  wish  o'erwhelm'd,  each  hope  elate, 

Oft  Genius  sinks  desponding  to  her  fate, 

Or  moves  the  indignant  pensioner  of  pride, 

Her  triumphs  blazon,  nor  her  spoils  divide  ; 

And,  wrapt  in  chilling  gloom,  ne'er  feels  the  day, 

Taught  by  her  hand  round  happier  wealth  to  play. 

Ah,  stern  decree  !  that  minds  whom  Heaven  inspires 
With  more  than  angel  thought,  than  angel  fires ; 
Whose  virtues  vibrate  to  the  tenderest  tone, 
And  wake  to  wo  ere  half  her  woes  be  known  ; 
From  the  high  boon  a  sterner  fate  derive, 
And  suffer  most,  to  suffering  most  alive. 

29 


226 


THE    MAGIC   DRAUGHT. 

[Addressed  to  a  young  Lady  who  gave  him  Seltzer  water  to  drink.} 


BY    DR.    S.   L.   MITCHELL. 


BRISK  sparkled  the  liquid,  most  lively  and  fine, 
Transparent  as  amber,  than  crystal  more  pure, 

Appearing  those  qualities  rare  to  combine, 
Adapted  exactly  his  health  to  secure. 

Pursuant  to  order,  he  drank  in  a  trice, 

Full  confidence  in  his  physician  he  placed ; 

For  who  that  is  favour'd  with  lady's  advice 
Can  ever  refuse  their  prescriptions  to  taste  ? 

Unconscious  what  mischief  within  it  might  lurk, 
He  swallowed  the  doses  again  and  again, 

Till  he  fancied  within  him  a  manifold  work, 
Disturbing  his  heart  and  distracting  his  brain. 

Suspecting,  at  last,  from  his  feelings  unus'd, 
A  trick  on  his  faith  had  been  wantonly  play'd, 

"  Some  philter  or  potion"  he  swore  "  was  infused, 
Some  magic  or  poison  instilled  by  the  maid." 

"Not  this  a  Nepenthe  the  mind  to  compose, 
Which  Helen  at  Sparta  employ'd  in  her  feasts, 

But  a  draught  such  as  Circe,  the  sorceress,  chose, 
Transforming  the  drinkers  to  four-footed  beasts." 


THE    MAGIC    DRAUGHT.  227 

"  Not  a  worse  composition  did  Shakspeare  behold, 
Prepared  in  their  cauldron  by  witches  obscene, 

Nor  were  drugs  more  detested,  as  Hayley  has  told, 

Commix'd  by  the  fiends  when  they  conjur'd  up  Spleen." 

Thus  railing  and  raving,  awhile  he  went  on, 
Bethinking  he  soon  must  his  testament  make, 

When  lo  !  all  the  terrible  symptoms  were  gone, 
And  his  woful  conjecture  turn'd  out  a  mistake. 

No  water  from  Seltzer  the  vessel  contain'd, 

Nor  has  Pyrmont  or  Spa  such  a  remedy  known  ; 

For  she  candidly,  since  the  prescription,  explain'd, 
Prepar'd  by  a  process  entirely  her  own. 

The  tears  which  at  church  on  Good  Friday  she  shed, 
After  Easter  was  over,  had  fairly  been  dry'd, 

But  the  'kerchief  on  which  she  supported  her  head 
Was  laid  with  the  precious  effusion  aside. 

This  'kerchief,  to  bleech  in  the  sunshine  was  plac'd, 
And  expos'd  to  the  weather  by  night  and  by  day  ; 

With  snow-flakes  of  April  was  often  incas'd, 
And  moisten'd  as  often  by  dew-drops  of  May. 

In  ether's  high  region,  where  thunders  prevail, 
Those  drops  by  explosion's  electric  were  form'd, 

Had  once  in  descending  been  frozen  to  hail, 

And  twice  in  the  rainbow's  refraction  been  warm'd. 

Collecting  these  drops  on  their  fall  from  above, 
With  myrtle's  quintessence  she  tinctnr'd  the  mass ; 

Then  breath'd  in  the  mixture  the  spirit  of  love, 
And  blessing,  enclos'd  it  securely  in  glass. 


228  IMPROMPTU. 

This  potent  elixir,  he  plainly  observes, 

Of  his  head  and  his  heart  has  pervaded  the  whole  ; 
Excites  every  fibre,  and  quickens  the  nerves, 

With  sweet  agitation  delighting  the  soul. 

Yet  he  fears  its  effects  on  his  temper  and  health 
Will  make  him  his  toilsome  exertions  disclaim ; 

No  more  be  devoted  to  projects  of  wealth, 

Nor  seek  to  be  crownrd  with  the  laurels  of  Fame. 

Nay — an  antidote  sovereign  he  long  has  possess'd, 
His  affections  from  spells  and  enchantments  to  free  ; 

No  foreign  intruder  can  enter  a  breast, 
Pre-occupied,  heart  winning  S h  by  thee. 


IMPROMPTU. 

[  On  Miss '5  paying  the  tribute  of  a  tear  to  a  scene  of  distress.] 

BY  JACOB  MORTON. — 1790. 

SOFT  as  the  dews  of  evening  skies 
Which  on  the  flow'ret's  bosom  fall, 

Were  those  sweet  tears  in  Anna's  eyes 
Which  wak'd  at  pity's  gentle  call. 

Ah  !  may  that  tender,  feeling  heart, 
Where  thus  sweet  sympathy  doth  glow, 

Ne'er  feel  the  pang  of  sorrow's  dart, 
Nor  sigh — but  for  another's  wo. 


229 


APPEAL 

TO  A  CERTAIN  GREAT  MAN,  WHO  HAS  QUESTIONED  CERTAIN  REVEAL 
ED  TRUTHS. 

BY   A.   L.   BLAUVELT. — 1805. 

THOU  talk'st  of  Reason's  unassisted  eye  : 

Lift  then  thy  darling  Reason  to  the  sky,  — 

Paint,  if  thou  wilt,  the  unincumber'd  mind, 

Vast  in  its  powers,  and  in  its  views  refin'd ; 

To  truth  aspiring  on  the  wings  of  day, 

And  spanning  systems  with  a  godlike  sway. 

The  portrait  you  have  formed  you  dread  to  own, 

And  Guilt's  deep  blushes  o'er  its  shades  are  thrown : 

For  has  the  Almighty  thus  inform'd  the  race, 

His  truth  to  question  and  his  laws  deface  ? 

Bestow'd  a  mind  the  Eternal's  mind  to  blame, 

And  Reason's  deathless  force,  His  reason  to  defame  ? 

As  well  might  Jove's  imperial  bird  defy 

The  Power  that  made  him  soar,  because  he  soars  so  high. 


LINES 

TO  A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  LATE  GOVERNOR  CLINTON. 

BY  J.   B.   VAN   SCHAICK. — 1829. 

AND  thou,  fair  flower  of  hope  ! 
Like  a  sweet  violet,  delicate  and  frail, 
Hast  reared  thy  tender  stem  beneath  an  oak, 
Whose  noble  limbs  o'ershadowed  thee.     The  damp 
Cold  dews  of  the  unhealthy  world  fell  not 
On  thee ;  the  gaudy  sunshine  of  its  pomp 
Came  tempered  to  thine  eye  in  milder  beams. 


230  THE    SON    OF    SORROW. 

The  train  of  life's  inevitable  ills 

Fell  like  the  April  rain  upon  the  flowers, 

But  thou  wert  shielded  —  no  rude  pelting  storms 

Came  down  unbroken  by  thy  sheltering  tree. 

Fallen  is  the  oak, 

The  monarch  of  a  forest  sleeps.     Around, 
The  withered  ivy  and  the  broken  branch 
Are  silent  evidence  of  greatness  past, 
And  his  sweet,  cherished  violet  has  drunk 
The  bitter  dews  until  its  cup  was  full. 
And  now  strange  trees  wave  o'er  it,  and  the  shade 
Of  weeping-willows  and  down-swaying  boughs 
Stretch  toward  it  with  melancholy  sorrow  — 
All  sympathizing  with  the  drooping  flower. 
And  years  shall  pass  ere  living  trees  forget 
That  stately  oak,  and  what  a  fame  he  shed 
O'er  all  the  forest,  and  how  each  was  proud 
That  he  could  call  himself  a  kindred  thing. 

Long  may  the  beauty  of  that  violet 

Grow  in  the  soil  of  hearts  ;  till,  delicate, 

Yet  ripened  into  summer  loveliness, 

A  thousand  branches  all  shall  contending  cast 

Their  friendly  shadows  in  protection  there ! 


THE   SON   OF   SORROW. 

TO    MYRA. 

BY    A.    L.    BLAUVELT. 

WHEN  deep  despondence  gathers  into  shade, 
And  grief  unfeign'd  calls  fiction  to  her  aid  — 
Paints  through  the  vista  of  expected  years, 
Hours  clad  with  wo  and  visions  dim  with  tears 


PORTRAITURE.  231 

The  past  and  future  one  large  waste  of  gloom  — 
Here  mem'ry's  madness,  there  oblivion's  tomb  ; 
No  ear  to  list,  no  voice  to  soothe  despair, 
And  even  death  is  deaf  to  sorrow's  prayer. 
Oh  !  say,  sweet  minstrel,  (for  thy  sighs  I  know 
Are  wont  to  mingle  with  the  sighs  of  wo,) 
Where  shall  the  hope-deserted  pilgrim  fly 
To  live  too  wretched,  and  too  weak  to  die  ? 
Perhaps,  e'en  now,  impassion'd  and  sincere, 
The  sigh  of  beauty  steals  upon  his  ear  — 
Soft  as  the  sky-wove  theme  of  viewless  lyres, 
That  soothe  his  spirit  when  the  saint  expires : 
And  oh !  perhaps,  ere  quite  dissolv'd  in  air, 
That  sigh  may  breathe  oblivion  to  despair  ; 
Melt  o'er  the  throbbing  string  in  Myra's  lay, 
Till  wo,  enraptur'd,  bears  herself  away. 


PORTRAITURE. 

[From  "  Vice,  a  Satire,"  1774.] 

BY   GULIAN   VERPLANCK. 
Ob:    1799. 

Go,  learn  thou  this  :  From  regulated  Sense 
Is  all  our  bliss — from  sober  Temperance. 
How  much,  Oh  Temperance  !  to  thee  we  owe, 
What  joys  sincere  from  thy  pure  fountains  flow ; 
Life's  most  protracted  date  derives  from  thee 
A  calm  old  age,  and  death  from  anguish  free. 


232 


PORTRAITURE. 

Doth  Death  affright  thee  with  his  dread  parade, 
The  hearse  slow  moving,  and  the  cavalcade  ? 
Go,  early  learn  its  terrors  to  despise, 
Read  virtue's  lesson,  and  in  time  be  wise. 
Enough  of  crimes  on  these  Heav'n's  vengeance  wait. 
Let  Satire  aim  at  faults  of  humbler  state. 

Whoe'er  observes,  will  find  in  human  race 
More  difference  of  character  than  face  ; 
Some  nice,  odd  turns,  in  all  th'  observer  strike, 
Each  his  peculiar  has,  nor  find  we  two  alike. 
Blest  with  each  art  that  soothes  the  ills  of  life, 
A  quiet  mind,  not  made  for  noise  and  strife  ; 
In  whose  fixed  calm  no  jarring  powers  contend, 
Design'd  to  act  as  husband,  father,  friend ; 
Had  Philo  been  content  with  what  was  given, 
And,  truly  wise,  enjoy'd  on  earth  his  heav'n : 
Philo  had  lived— but  lived  unknown  to  fame  ; 
Had  died  content, — but  died  without  a  name. 
No,  Philo  cried,  be  glorious  praise  my  care, 
Nor  let  this  name  be  mix'd  with  common  air ; 
For  this  he  wastes  the  weary  hours  of  night, 
Leaves  peace  to  fools,  and  banishes  delight ; 
Nature  in  vain  throws  in  fyer  honest  bars, 
The  wretch  runs  counter  to  himself  and  stars  ; 
In  vain — for  lost  no  character  he  seems, 
And  Philo  does  not  live,  but  only  dreams. 

Others  there  are,  who  to  the  shade  retire, 
Who'd  shine  if  nature  would  the  clods  inspire, 
And,  as  she  gave  them  parts,  would  give  them  fire  ; 
But  languid  bodies,  scarce  informed  with  soul, 
In  one  dull  round  their  vacant  moments  roll ; 
Heavy  and  motionless  as  summer  seas, 
They  yawn  out  life  in  most  laborious  ease  ; 
Passions,  half  formed,  in  their  cold  bosoms  lie, 
And  all  the  man  is  sluggish  anarchy. 


PORTRAITURE.  233 

,*       *  H 

Yet  wits,  and  wise,  when  some  small  shocks  awake, 

As  when  the  surface  of  some  stagnant  lake, 

Urged  by  the  action  of  the  busy  air, 

Breaks  its  thick  scum,  and  shows  the  bottom  clear. 

Who  knows  not  Florio  ?  sweet,  enraptured  elf! 

Florio  is  known  to  all  men  but  himself. 

Him  folly  owned  the  instant  of  his  birth, 

And  turned  his  soul  to  nonsense  and  to  mirth  ; 

Nor  boasts  a  son,  in  all  her  dancing  crowd, 

So  pert,  so  prim,  so  petulant,  and  proud. 

Mixture  absurd  and  strange  !  we  find  in  him 

Dulness  with  wit,  sobriety  with  whim ; 

A  soul  that  sickens  at  each  rising  art 

With  the  mean  malice  of  a  coward's  heart. 

So  milky  soft,  so  pretty,  and  so  neat, 

With  air  so  gentle,  and  with  voice  so  sweet ; 

What  dog-star's  rage,  what  maggot  of  the  brain, 

Could  make  a  fop  so  impudently  vain, 

To  throw  all  modesty  aside,  and  sit 

The  mighty  censor  of  the  works  of  wit  ? 

Say,  wretch  !  what  pride  could  prompt  thee  to  bestow 

Abuse  on  power,  the  greatest  power  below; 

The  Muse's  power  ?  That  power  thyself  shall  know  : 

Her  pen  shall  add  thee  to  the  long,  long  roll 

That  holds  the  name  of  every  brother  fool. 

Of  various  passions  that  divide  the  breast, 

Pride  reigns  supreme  and  governs  all  the  rest ; 

Its  form  is  varied,  but  to  all  supplied 

In  equal  shares,  however  modified. 

Blest  source  of  action,  whose  perpetual  strife 

With  sluggish  nature,  warms  us  into  life : 

oo  /  7 

Thou  great  first  mover,  'tis  alone  from  thee 
That  life  derives  its  sweet  diversity. 
Yet  hapless  he,  whose  ill-directed  pride 
With  soft  seduction  draws  his  steps  aside 
30 


234  THE    FAREWELL. 

From  life's  low  vale,  where  humbler  joys  invite  ; 
With  bold,  rash  tread,  to  gain  distinction's  height. 
Him  peace  forsakes,  and  endless  toils  oppose, 
A  friend's  defection,  and  the  spleen  of  foes. 
Black  calumny  invents  her  thousand  lies, 
And  sickly  envy  blasts  him  if  he  rise — 
He,  wretch  accursed,  tied  down  to  servile  rules, 
Must  think  and  act  no  more  like  other  fools  : 
For  him  no  more  that  social  ease  remains 
Which  sweetens  life,  and  softens  all  its  pains  j 
Each  jealous  eye  betrays  a  critic's  pen, 
To  search  for  faults  it  spares  in  other  men. 
How  shall  he  wish  in  vain,  once  more  his  own, 
That  hour  when  free,  and  to  the  world  unknown, 
Its  praise  he  had  not,  nor  could  fear  its  frown. 


THE   FAREWELL. 

BY  JOHN  I.   BAILEY. 

OH  !  leave  me  still  thy  tender  heart, 

Though  love's  delirious  reign  is  over ; 
I,  too,  will  act  the  traitor's  part — 

Cordelia-like,  become  a  rover. 
No  more  I'll  gaze  on  smiles  of  thine, 

That  beam  as  sweetly  on  another, 
Save  with  the  feelings  pure  that  twine 

Around  the  bosom  of  a  brother. 


THE    FAREWELL.  235 

Loved  smiles  !  that  once  around  me  shone, 

And  waked  to  feelings  of  devotion  ; 
Thy  sway  is  past,  thy  charm  is  gone — 

Thou  art  resigned  without  emotion. 
No  more  to  charm  my  wildered  dream, 

Or  hope's  delusive  joys  to  heighten  ; 
O'er  my  lone  heart  thy  cheerless  beam 

Falls,  but  has  lost  the  power  to  brighten. 

The  auburn  ringlets  of  thy  hair 

May  twine  as  graceful  still,  and  let  them — 
Those  locks  were  once  as  loved  as  fair, 

Yet  lost  to  me,  I'll  ne'er  regret  them. 
Yes  !  I  could  view  those  curls  entwine 

Around  another's  hand  that  wreath'd  them ; 
Unmoved,  recall  those  tones  divine, 

Once  sweet  as  were  the  lips  that  breath'd  them  ! 

Thy  form  no  longer  wears  the  spell, 

As  when  a  lover's  dreams  it  haunted ; 
Nor  can  affection  fondly  dwell 

On  every  grace  that  once  enchanted. 
Then  fare  thee  well !  thou'st  broke  the  chain  ; 

Go  !  yield  thy  charms  to  bless  another ; 
I  would  not  seek  their  wiles  again, 

I  only  ask— to  be  thy  brother. 


236 


SONNET   TO   MYRA. 

BY   A.    L.   BLAUVELT. 

How  sad  the  exile  from  his  native  skies 

Doom'd  on  the  shade  of  parted  bliss  to  dwell  -— 

No  ear  to  catch  his  penitential  sighs, 

No  voice  to  soothe  him  in  his  last  farewell. 

Anxious  he  treads  th'  inhospitable  shore. 
And  gazes  anxious  on  the  main 
Where  ling'ring  fancy  loves  to  feign 

Till  day's  last  lustre  bids  her  wake  no  more ; 

Then  horror  climbs  the  dusky  wave. 

And  beckons  madness  to  her  grave, 

Where,  cradled  by  the  surge  to  rest, 

Low  sighs  the  passing  gale,  "  Despair  is  blest." 

Ah  !  sadder  far  an  exile  from  thy  charms ; 

Friends,  Country,  Freedom,  smile  in  Myra's  arms. 


TO    CORDELIA. 

BY   JOHN  I.   BAILEY. 

SMILE  not,  sweet  girl,  'tis  even  so — 
Cordelia,  smile  not  unbelieving ; 

My  words,  though  not  so  sweet,  I  know, 
As  thine,  were  never  so  deceiving. 

And  if  I  must  be  sworn  to  prove 
That  I  have  said  sincerely,  thereby, 

I'd  choose  thy  brow,  so  formed  for  love, 
To  be  the  book  I'd  kissing  swear  by. 


TO   CORDELIA.  237 

Nay,  look  not  angry  thus,  'tis  vain — 

I  value  not  thy  frowns  a  feather — 
'Tis  not  thy  nature  to  retain 

An  unkind  thought  for  hours  together. 


I  envy  not  thy  lover's  joys, 

Nor  flattering  smiles  that  so  endear  them ; 
Thy  brittle  chains  caprice  destroys  ; 

Oh  !  who  on  earth  would  wish  to  wear  them  ? 


Yes  !  I  could  give  thee  many  a  name 

Of  those  who've  waked  thy  tender  bosom ; 

A  flame  succeeding  still  to  flame, 

Yet  thou  wert  e'er  content  to  lose  'em. 


Content  to  wound  that  bosom  too, 

That  had  for  years,  unchanged,  ador'd  thee  ; 
Oh  !  when  thou  held'st  a  heart  so  true, 

What  joy  could  ranging  thus  afford  thee  1 


I  trust  an  angel's  form  thou'lt  wear 
E'er  I  ascend  to  yonder  Heaven  ; 

Or  I  a  tale  could  give  in  there, 
Would  leave  thee  lost  and  unforgiven. 


23S 


SONG.  — WHEN  OTHER  FRIENDS  ARE  ROUND 
THEE. 

BY   G.   P.    MORRIS. 

WHEN  other  friends  are  round  thee, 

And  other  hearts  are  thine  ; 
When  other  bays  have  crowned  thee, 

More  fresh  and  green  than  mine. 
Then  think  how  sad  and  lonely 

This  wretched  heart  will  be  ; 
Which,  while  it  beats — beats  only, 

Beloved  one  !  for  thee. 

Yet  do  not  think  I  doubt  thee  ; 

I  know  thy  truth  remains, 
I  would  not  live  without  thee 

For  all  the  world  contains. 
Thou  art  the  star  that  guides  me 

Along  life's  troubled  sea, 
And  whatever  fate  betides  me, 

This  heart  still  turns  to  thee. 


DEATH  OF  THE  FIRST-BORN. 

BY    WILLIS   G.    CLARK. 

YOUNG  mother,  he  is  gone, 
His  dimpled  cheek  no  more  will  touch  thy  breast, 

No  more  the  music  tone 
Float  from  his  lips  to  thine  all  fondly  prest ; 
His  smile  and  happy  laugh  are  lost  to  thee, 
Earth  must  his  mother  and  his  pillow  be. 


DEATH    OF    THE    FIRST-BORN.  239 

His  was  the  morning  hour. 
And  he  hath  passed  in  beauty  from  the  day, 

A  bud  not  yet  a  flower ; 
Torn  in  its  sweetness  from  the  parent  spray, 
The  death  wind  swept  him  to  his  soft  repose, 
As  frost  in  spring-time  blights  the  early  rose. 

Never  on  earth  again 
Will  his  rich  accents  charm  thy  listening  ear, 

Like  some  ^Eolian  strain, 
Breathing  at  even-tide  serene  and  clear ; 
His  voice  is  choked  in  dust,  and  on  his  eyes 
The  unbroken  seal  of  peace  and  silence  lies. 

And  from  thy  yearning  heart, 
Whose  inmost  core  was  warm  with  love  for  him, 

A  gladness  must  depart, 
And  those  kind  eyes  with  many  tears  be  dim; 
While  lonely  memories,  an  unceasing  train, 
Will  turn  the  raptures  of  the  past  to  pain. 

Yet,  mourner,  while  the  day 
Rolls  like  the  darkness  of  a  funeral  by, 

And  hope  forbids  one  ray 
To  stream  athwart  the  grief-discoloured  sky, 
There  breaks  upon  thy  sorrow's  evening  gloom 
A  trembling  lustre  from  beyond  the  tomb. 

'T  is  from  the  better  land : 
There,  bathed  in  radiance  that  around  them  springs, 

Thy  lov'd  one's  wings  expand, 
As  with  the  quoiring  cherubim  he  sings  ; 
And  all  the  glory  of  that  God  can  see, 
Who  said  on  earth  to  children,  "  Come  to  me." 


240        ELEGY    ON    THE    EXILE    AND    DEATH    OP    OVID. 

Mother  !  thy  child  is  blest ; 
And  though  his  presence  may  be  lost  to  thee, 

And  vacant  leave  thy  breast, 
And  missed  a  sweet  load  from  thy  parent  knee  — 
Though  tones  familiar  from  thine  ear  have  passed, 
Thou  'It  meet  thy  first-born  with  his  Lord  at  last. 


ELEGY  ON  THE  EXILE  AND  DEATH  OF  OVID. 

[  Translated  from  the  Latin  of  Angelus  Politianus.] 

BY   FRANCIS   ARDEN. — 1821. 

A  ROMAN  Bard  lies  on  the  Euxine's  side, 

Barbarian  earth  a  Roman  poet  holds, 
Barbarian  earth,  wash'd  by  cold  Isther's  tide, 

The  poet  of  the  tender  loves  infolds. 

Excites  not  this,  O  Rome  !  a  blush  in  thee, 
That  to  so  great  a  nursling,  harsh  of  mood, 

Reserv'st  a  bosom  steel'd  in  cruelty, 
Surpassing  the  inhuman  Getic  brood  ? 

Had  Scythian  fields,  ye  muses,  one  to  chase, 

His  weary  minutes  of  disease  away, 
His  frigid  limbs  upon  the  couch  to  place, 

Or  with  sweet  converse  to  beguile  the  day. 


ELEGY    ON    THE    EXILE    AND    DEATH    OF    OVID.        241 

One  who  would  mark  the  throbbing  of  his' veins. 
The  lotion's  aid  with  ready  hand  apply. 

Would  close  his  eyes  'midst  dissolution's  pains, 
Or  with  fond  lips  inhale  his  latest  sigh. 

None  could  be  found,  not  one,  for  warlike  Rome, 
From  Pontus  far  detains  his  early  friends, 

Far  stands  his  wife's  and  young  descendants'  home. 
Nor  on  her  exil'd  sire  his  daughter  tends. 

But  the  wild  Bessi  of  enormous  limb, 
And  the  Coralli  yellow  hair'd,  are  there ; 

Or,  clad  in  skins,  the  Getic  people  grim, 

Whose  bosoms  hearts  of  flint  within  them  bear, 

Yes,  the  Sarmatian  boor,  with  aspect  dread, 
His  savage  succours  on  the  bard  bestow'd ; 

The  fierce  Sarmatian,  from  debauch  oft  led, 
Borne  to  his  horse's  back  a  reeling  load. 

The  fierce  Sarmatian  boor,  with  piercing  eye 
Deep  prison'd  in  his  rugged  forehead's  bound, 

Whose  temples,  shiv'ring  'neath  th'  inclement  sky, 
With  clatt'rings  of  his  frost-wrapp'd  hair  resound. 

Yes  ;  for  the  bard  immers'd  in  death's  long  sleep, 
The  Bessie  plund'rers  bid  their  tears  to  flow, 

The  rough  Coralli  and  Sarmatian  weep, 
And  cruel  Getic  strikes  his  face  the  blow. 

Hills,  woods,  and  savage  beasts  his  death  deplore, 

And  Ister  wails  amid  his  waters'  bed, 
And  Pontus,  chill'd  with  ice  incrusted  o'er, 

Warms  with  the  tears  the  sorrowing  Nereids  shed.. 
31 


242  NAPOLEON. 

There  with  the  Paphian  mother  in  swift  haste, 

The  light-winged  Doves  through  airy  regions  came, 

With  pious  care  the  blazing  torches  plac'd 
Beneath  the  pyre  prepar'd  to  feed  the  flame. 

Soon  as  the  rapid  fires  with  wasteful  sway 
Consumed  whate'er  their  greedy  rage  could  burn, 

His  cherish'd  relics  they  collect,  and  lay 
In  decent  order  in  the  cover'd  urn. 

With  this  short  verse  the  stone  they  next  impress  : 
(The  treasur'd  dust  placed  to  denote  above,) 

"  He  who  sepulchred  lies  in  this  recess, 
Was  teacher  of  the  tender  art  of  love." 

Here  Cytherea's  self,  with  snow-white  hand, 

Sheds  sacred  dews  in  seven  free  sprinklings  round, 

And  for  the  Bard  remov'd,  the  Muse's  band 
Pour  strains  my  lays  may  not  attempt  to  sound. 


NAPOLEON. 

BY  ISAAC   CLASON. — 1825. 

I  LOVE  no  land  so  well  as  that  of  France — 

Land  of  Napoleon  and  Charlemagne, 
Renowned  for  valour,  women,  wit,  and  dance, 

For  racy  Burgundy  and  bright  Champagne, 
Whose  only  word  in  battle  was  advance ; 

While  that  Grand  Genius,  who  seemed  born  to  reign, 
Greater  than  Ammon's  son,  who  boasted  birth 
From  heaven,  and  spurn'd  all  sons  of  earth, 


NAPOLEON.  243 

Greater  than  he  who  wore  his  buskins  high, 

A  Venus  armed  impressed  upon  his  seal ; 
Who  smiled  at  poor  Calphurnia's  prophecy, 

Nor  feared  the  stroke  he  soon  was  doomed  to  feel. 
Who  on  the  Ides  of  March  breathed  his  last  sigh 

As  Brutus  pluck'd  away  his  "  cursed  stael," 
Exclaiming,  as  he  expired  "  Et  tu,  Brute," 
But  Brutus  thought  he  only  did  his  duty. 

Greater  than  he,  who,  at  nine  years  of  age, 

On  Carthage'  altar  swore  eternal  hate ; 
Who  with  a  rancour  time  could  ne'er  assuage, 

With  feelings  no  reverse  could  moderate ; 
With  talents  such  as  few  would  dare  engage, 

With  hopes  that  no  misfortune  could  abate — 
Died  like  his  rival — both  with  broken  hearts  ; 
Such  was  their  fate,  and  such  was  Bonaparte's. 

Napoleon  Bonaparte  !  thy  name  shall  live 

Till  time's  last  echo  shall  have  ceased  to  sound  ; 

And  if  Eternity's  confines  can  give 

To  space  reverberation  round  and  round 

The  spheres  of  Heaven,  the  long,  deep  cry  of"  Vive 
Napoleon,"  in  thunders  shall  rebound ; 

The  lightning's  flash  shall  blaze  thy  name  on  high, 

Monarch  of  earth,  now  meteor  of  the  sky  ! 

What  though  on  St.  Helena's  rocky  shore 

Thy  head  be  pillow'd,  and  thy  form  entomb'd, 

Perhaps  that  son,  the  child  thou  did'st  adore, 
Fired  with  a  father's  fame,  may  yet  be  doom'd 

To  crush  the  bigot  Bourbon,  and  restore 

Thy  mouldering  ashes  ere  they  be  corisum'd  j 

Perhaps  may  run  the  course  thyself  did'st  run, 

And  light  the  world  as  comets  light  the  sun. 


244 


NAPOLEON. 


'Tis  better  thou  art  gone,  'twere  sad  to  see 

Beneath  an  "  imbecile's  impotant  reign 
Thine  own  unvanquished  legions  doomed  to  be 

Cursed  instruments  of  vengeance  on  poor  Spain; 
That  land  so  glorious  once  in  chivalry, 

Now  sunk  in  slavery  and  in  shame  again ; 
To  see  th'  imperial  guard,  thy  dauntless  band, 
Made  tools  for  such  a  wretch  as  Ferdinand. 

Farewell,  Napoleon  !  thine  hour  is  past ; 

No  more  earth  trembles  at  thy  dreaded  name  ; 
But  France,  unhappy  France  shall  long  contrast 

Thy  deeds  with  those  of  worthless  D'AngoiiUme. 
Ye  gods  !  how  long  shall  Slavery's  thraldom  last  ? 

Will  France  alone  remain  for  ever  tame  ? 
Say,  will  no  Wallace,  will  no  Washington, 
Scourge  from  thy  soil  the  infamous  Bourbon  ? 

Is  Freedom  dead  ?  is  Nero's  reign  restored  ? 

Frenchmen  !  remember  Jena,  Austerlitz  ; 
The  first,  which  made  thy  emperor  the  lord 

Of  Prussia,  and  which  almost  threw  in  fits 
Great  Frederick  William;  he,  who,  at  the  board 

Took  all  the  Prussian  uniform  to  bits  ; 
Frederick,  the  King  of  regimental  tailors, 
As  Hudson  Lowe,  the  very  prince  of  jailors. 

Farewell,  Napoleon  !  had'st  thou  have  died 
The  coward  scorpion's  death,  afraid,  asham'd 

To  meet  Adversity's  advancing  tide, 

The  weak  had  praised  thee,  but  the  wise  had  blam'd  ; 

But  no  !  though  torn  from  country,  child,  and  bride, 
With  spirit  unsubdued,  with  soul  untam'd, 

Great  in  misfortune  as  in  glory  high, 

Thou  daredst  to  live  through  life's  worst  agony. 


THE    BUTTERFLY. 

Pity,  for  thee  shall  weep  her  fountains  dry ; 

Mercy,  for  thee  shall  bankrupt  all  her  store  ; 
Valour  shall  pluck  a  garland  from  on  high, 

And  Honour  twine  the  wreath  thy  temples  o'er ; 
Beauty  shall  beckon  to  thee  from  the  sky, 

And  smiling  seraphs  open  wide  Heav'n's  door  ; 
Around  thy  head  the  brightest  stars  shall  meet, 
And  rolling  suns  play  sportive  at  thy  feet. 

Farewell,  Napoleon  !  a  long  farewell, 

A  stranger's  tongue,  alas  !  must  hymn  thy  worth ; 
No  craven  Gaul  dare  wake  his  harp  to  tell, 

Or  sound  in  song  the  spot  that  gave  thee  birth. 
No  more  thy  name,  that  with  its  magic  spell 

Arous'd  the  slumb'ring  nations  of  the  earth, 
Echoes  around  thy  land ;  'tis  past — at  length 
France  sinks  beneath  the  sway  of  Charles  the  Tenth, 


215 


THE     BUTTERFLY. 

BY   R.    C.    SANDS. 

[From  the  French  of  De  la  Martinet] 

BORN  with  the  spring,  and  with  the  roses  dying, 

Through  the  clear  sky  on  Zephyr's  pinion  sailing, 
On  the  young  flowret's  opening  bosom  lying, 

Perfume  and  light  and  the  blue  air  inhaling, 
Shaking  the  thin  dust  from  its  wings,  and  fleeing, 

And  fading  like  a  breath  in  boundless  heaven, — 
Such  is  the  butterfly's  enchanted  being ; 

How  like  desire,  to  which  no  rest  is  given, 
Which  still  uneasy,  rifling  every  treasure, 
Returns  at  last  above  to  seek  for  purer  pleasure. 


246 


FRAGMENT. 

BY   ISAAC   CLASON. — 1825. 

HE  who  has  seen  the  red-forked  lightnings  flash 

From  out  some  bleak  and  tempest-gathered  cloud, 
And  heard  the  thunder's  simultaneous  crash 

Bursting  in  peals  terrifically  loud ; 
He  who  has  marked  the  maddened  ocean  dash 

(Rob'd  in  its  snow-white  foam  as  in  a  shroud,) 
Its  giant  billows  on  the  groaning  shore, 

While  death  seem'd  echoed  in  the  deaf'ning  roar  ; 

He  who  has  seen  the  wild  tornado  sweep 

(Its  path  destruction,  and  its  progress  death,) 
The  silent  bosom  of  the  smiling  deep 

With  the  black  besom  of  its  boisterous  breath, 
Waking  to  strife  the  slumbering  waves  that  leap 

In  battling  surges  from  their  beds  beneath, 
Yawning  and  swelling  from  their  liquid  caves 

Like  buried  giants  from  their  restless  graves  : — 

He  who  has  gazed  on  sights  and  scenes  like  these, 

Hath  look'd  on  nature  in  her  maddest  mood. 
But  Nature's  warfare  passes  by  degrees ; 

The  thunder's  voice  is  hush'd,  however  rude. 
The  dying  winds  unclasp  the  raging  seas, 

The  scowling  sky  throws  by  her  cloud-capt  hood, 
The  infant  lightnings  to  their  cradle  creep, 

And  the  gaunt  earthquake  rocks  herself  to  sleep. 


LOVE'S    REMEMBRANCER.  247 

But  there  are  storms  whose  lightnings  ever  glare, 

Tempests  whose  thunders  never  cease  to  roll  — 
The  storms  of  love  when  madden'd  to  despair, 

The  furious  tempests  of  the  jealous  soul, 
That  kamsin  of  the  heart  which  few  can  bear, 

Which  owns  no  limit  and  which  knows  no  goal, 
Whose  blast  leaves  joy  a  tomb,  and  hope  a  speck, 

Reason  a  blank,  and  happiness  a  wreck. 


LOVE'S   REMEMBRANCER. 


BY   WILLIAM   LEGGETT. 


AND  is  this  all  remains  of  thee, 

Beloved  in  youth  so  well  ? 
Of  all  the  charms  that  threw  o'er  me 

Affection's  sweetest  spell  — 
The  eye  that  beamed  with  light  of  mind, 
The  heart  so  warm  and  so  refined, 

This  only  left  to  tell  ? 
Yet  well  does  it  recall  again 
The  form  beloved — alas  !  in  vain. 

Sad  relic  !  but  few  months  are  fled 

Since  thou  didst  grace  the  brow 

Of  her,  who  in  death's  marble  bed 

Is  coldly  sleeping  now  ! 
And  when  I  leave  my  native  home 
O'er  ocean's  pathless  waste  to  roarn, 

With  many  a  whispered  vow 
Did  she  this  raven  tress  confer, 
And  called  thee,  Love's  Remembrancer. 


248  LOVE'S  REMEMBRANCER. 

v» 

I  placed  thee  next  my  throbbing  heart, 

Where  soon  I  hoped  to  fold 
The  maid  of  whom  alone  thou  art 

All  I  can  e'er  behold  ! 
And  often,  on  the  moonlight  sea, 
I've  stolen  a  glance  of  love  at  thee, 

While  pleasure's  tear-drop  rolled 
To  think  I  should  soon  cross  the  main, 
And  meet  my  love — no,  ne'er  again  ! 

At  last  our  bark  return'd  once  more 

O'er  ocean's  heaving  breast ; 
And  lightly  on  my  native  shore 

My  thrilling  footsteps  pressed  : 
With  breathless  haste  I  sought  the  form 
That,  day  and  night,  through  calm  and  storm, 

Had  been  my  bosom's  guest — 
I  sought — but  ah  !  the  grave  had  closed 
Above  that  form,  in  death  reposed ! 

Dear  gift !  when  now  thou  meet'st  my  gaze, 
What  burning  thoughts  arise  ! 

O,  how  the  soul  of  other  days 
Comes  gushing  from  mine  eyes  ! 

I  do  not  weep  o'er  pleasures  fled ; 

Nor  mourn  I  that  the  loved  one 's  dead : 
But  when  remembrance  flies 

Back  o'er  the  scenes  of  early  years, 

In  vain  would  I  suppress  my  tears  ! 

I  weep  —  yet  scarce  know  why  I  weep  — 

For  I  would  not  recall 
That  being  from  her  dreamless  sleep  — 

I  would  not  lift  the  pall 


249 


That  shrouds  her  cold  and  pulseless  breast  — 
No  !  if  a  word  could  break  her  rest, 

And  give  back  life,  love,  all 
That  once  made  life  so  bright,  so  dear, 
I  could  not  —  could  not  —  wish  her  here  ! 

Now  let  the  tempest  pour  its  wrath 

On  my  devoted  head  ! 
The  clouds  that  lower  upon  my  path 

Cannot  disturb  the  dead  : 
And  oh  !  'tis  something  still  to  know, 
Howe'er  mine  eyes  with  anguish  flow, 

No  tears  can  e'er  be  shed 
By  her,  who,  snatched  in  loveliest  bloom, 
Lies  mouldering  in  an  early  tomb. 

Life's  burden  I  have  learned  to  bear, 

But  I  would  bear  alone, 
Nor  have  one  other  heart  to  share 

The  pangs  that  rend  my  own  ! 
Yes,  yes,  loved  pledge  !  where  now  my  view 
Is  fixed  upon  the  raven  hue, 

It  softens  sorrow's  moan 
To  know — whate'er  'tis  mine  to  brave — 
Affliction  cannot  pierce  the  grave  I 


32 


250 


TO    THE    DYING    YEAR. 

BY   J.   G.   BROOKS. 

THOU  desolate  and  dying  year  ! 

Emblem  of  transitory  man, 
Whose  wearisome  and  wild  career 

Like  thine  is  bounded  to  a  span  ; 
It  seems  but  as  a  little  day 

Since  nature  smiled  upon  thy  birth, 
And  Spring  came  forth  in  fair  array, 

To  dance  upon  the  joyous  earth. 

Sad  alteration  !  now  how  lone, 

How  verdureless  is  nature's  breast, 
Where  ruin  makes  his  empire  known, 

In  Autumn's  yellow  vesture  drest ; 
The  sprightly  bird,  whose  carol  sweet 

Broke  on  the  breath  of  early  day, 
The  summer  flowers  she  loved  to  greet ; 

The  bird,  the  flowers,  Oh  !  where  are  they  ? 

Thou  desolate  and  dying  year  ! 

Yet  lovely  in  thy  lifelessness 
As  beauty  stretched  upon  the  bier, 

In  death's  clay  cold,  and  dark  caress ; 
There's  loveliness  in  thy  decay, 

Which  breathes,  which  lingers  on  thee  still, 
Like  memory's  mild  and  cheering  ray 

Beaming  upon  the  night  of  ill. 


TO    THE    DYING    YEAR.  251 

Yet,  yet,  the  radiance  is  not  gone, 

Which  shed  a  richness  o'er  the  scene, 
Which  smiled  upon  the  golden  dawn, 

When  skies  were  brilliant  and  serene  ; 
Oh  !  still  a  melancholy  smile 

Gleams  upon  Nature's  aspect  fair, 
To  charm  the  eye  a  little  while, 

Ere  ruin  spreads  his  mantle  there  ! 

Thou  desolate  and  dying  year  ! 

Since  time  entwined  thy  vernal  wreath, 
How  often  love  hath  shed  the  tear, 

And  knelt  beside  the  bed  of  death  ; 
How  many  hearts  that  lightly  sprung 

When  joy  was  blooming  but  to  die, 
Their  finest  chords  by  death  unstrung, 

Have  yielded  life's  expiring  sigh, 

And  pillowed  low  beneath  the  clay, 

Have  ceased  to  melt,  to  breathe,  to  burn ; 
The  proud,  the  gentle,  and  the  gay, 

Gathered  unto  the  mouldering  urn  ; 
While  freshly  flowed  the  frequent  tear 

For  love  bereft,  affection  fled ; 
For  all  that  were  our  blessings  here, 

The  loved,  the  lost,  the  sainted  dead  ! 

Thou  desolate  and  dying  year  ! 

The  musing  spirit  finds  in  thee 
Lessons,  impressive  and  serene, 

Of  deep  and  stern  morality  ; 
Thou  teachest  how  the  germ  of  youth, 

Which  blooms  in  being's  dawning  day, 
Planted  by  nature,  reared  by  truth, 

Withers  like  thee  in  dark  decay. 


252  TO    THE    DYING    YEAR. 

Promise  of  youth !  fair  as  the  form 

Of  Heaven's  benign  and  golden  bow, 
Thy  smiling  arch  begirds  the  storm, 

And  sheds  a  light  on  every  wo  ; 
Hope  wakes  for  thee,  and  to  her  tongue, 

A  tone  of  melody  is  given, 
As  if  her  magic  voice  were  strung 

With  the  empyreal  fire  of  Heaven. 

And  love  which  never  can  expire, 

Whose  origin  is  from  on  high, 
Throws  o'er  thy  morn  a  ray  of  fire, 

From  the  pure  fountains  of  the  sky  ; 
That  ray  which  glows  and  brightens  still 

Unchanged,  eternal  and  divine  ; 
Where  seraphs  own  its  holy  thrill, 

And  bow  before  its  gleaming  shrine. 

Thou  desolate  and  dying  year  ! 

Prophetic  of  our  final  fall ; 
Thy  buds  are  gone,  thy  leaves  are  sear, 

Thy  beauties  shrouded  in  the  pall ; 
And  all  the  garniture  that  shed, 

A  brilliancy  upon  thy  prime, 
Hath  like  a  morning  vision  fled 

Unto  the  expanded  grave  of  time. 

Time  !  Time  !  in  thy  triumphal  flight, 

How  all  life's  phantoms  fleet  away  ; 
The  smile  of  hope,  and  young  delight, 

Fame's  meteor  beam,  and  Fancy's  ray : 
They  fade  ;  and  on  the  heaving  tide, 

Rolling  its  stormy  waves  afar, 
Are  borne  the  wreck  of  human  pride, 

The  broken  wreck  of  Fortune's  war. 


TO   THE    DYING    YEAR.  253 

There  in  disorder,  dark  and  wild, 

Are  seen  the  fabrics  once  so  high ; 
Which  mortal  vanity  had  piled 

As  emblems  of  eternity  ! 
And  deemed  the  stately  piles,  whose  forms 

Frowned  in  their  majesty  sublime. 
Would  stand  unshaken  by  the  storms 

That  gathered  round  the  brow  of  Time. 

Thou  desolate  and  dying  year  ! 

Earth's  brightest  pleasures  fade  like  thine  ; 
Like  evening  shadows  disappear, 

And  leave  the  spirit  to  repine. 
The  stream  of  life  that  used  to  pour 

Its  fresh  and  sparkling  waters  on, 
While  Fate  stood  watching  on  the  shore, 

And  numbered  all  the  moments  gone : — 

Where  hath  the  morning  splendour  flown, 

Which  danced  upon  that  crystal  stream  ? 
Where  are  the  joys  to  childhood  known, 

When  life  was  an  enchanted  dream  ? 
Enveloped  in  the  starless  night, 

Which  destiny  hath  overspread ; 
Enroll'd  upon  that  trackless  flight 

Where  the  death  wing  of  time  hath  sped  ! 

Oh !  thus  hath  life  its  even-tide 

Of  sorrow,  loneliness,  and  grief; 
And  thus  divested  of  its  pride, 

It  withers  like  the  yellow  leaf: 
Oh  !  such  is  life's  autumnal  bower, 

When  plundered  of  its  summer  bloom  ; 
And  such  is  life's  autumnal  hour, 

Which  heralds  man  unto  the  tomb  ! 


NEW-YORK: 

Printed  by  SCATCHKRD  &  AKAMS, 
Ko.  38  Gold  Street. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


